


Someone To Watch Over Me

by obsessivereader



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Bearded Steve Rogers, Cabin Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mentions of blood and gore, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve gets a dog, adrenaline-fueled face fucking, ex-Special Forces Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader
Summary: One cold, winter's night, Steve Rogers, retired Special Forces operative, finds an unconscious young man in the woods surrounding his property. In the morning, the stranger wakes up and Steve is left with plenty of questions about the beautiful young man with guileless eyes and a sheepish smile, who speaks with self-deprecating humor as though there isn't a bruise on his face and restraint marks on his wrist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We Never Had a Choice (But I Choose You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910836) by [capsiclemycaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsiclemycaptain/pseuds/capsiclemycaptain), [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees). 



> This fic is inspired by one of the beautiful pieces of art from the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018. The art prompt was created by [capsiclemycaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsiclemycaptain/pseuds/capsiclemycaptain) and claimed by [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees), one of the kindest people I know. Their amazing collaboration is linked below. The art prompt that inspired my fic can be found in Chapter 3 of their collaboration. Please go and give their collaboration all the love it deserves! Thank you so much to [capsiclemycaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsiclemycaptain/pseuds/capsiclemycaptain) and [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees) for letting me come play in your sandbox! 
> 
> Thank you also to the amazing mods of the [Captain America Reverse Big Bang](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CAP_RBB/collections) for all their hard work pulling together this event year after year. Truly one of the highlights of my fandom year!
> 
> The fic is complete and is in the final round of edits. I'll be posting each chapter as I finish the edits. I just gotta get this out here so I can stop tinkering. Go be free! Let me work on the next thing XD

Steve jerked when the perimeter alarm went off, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet of the cabin. Adrenaline flooded his system. Probably a deer, he told himself. He checked his watch—just past midnight. Fifteen minutes of staring at the canvas while achieving absolutely nothing. With something that felt a lot like relief, he switched off the work lamp that did nothing more than highlight its emptiness.

He turned off the alarm and ran up to get his Glock 9mm from the gun safe he made sure to keep well-stocked. Someone might think he was easy prey all alone in his cabin in a remote part of Vermont. He pulled on boots, jacket, and gloves. Slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. Time to go look for Bambi. Torchlight in hand, he crossed the snow-covered lawn till he reached the woods. He scanned the woods for movement, the shadows of tree trunks and bare branches dancing crazily as he swung his torchlight in a slow arc. Fat white snowflakes drifted down from the sky as his breath steamed in the cold. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he hiked out to the spot about six hundred yards southwest of his house. A hundred yards out, he pulled out his gun and began circling around so he could approach at an oblique angle.

He moved as quietly as he could through the snow until he spotted a black lump on the ground. It resolved into a crumpled body on the ground, clad in an over-sized black down jacket and jeans. Fuck. His Bambi was no deer. Steve scanned his surroundings one last time before dropping into a crouch next to the body and pulling the hood of the jacket back. He tugged off his glove and placed two fingers under the unconscious guy's jaw. A pulse there, but sluggish, and his skin felt cool to the touch. He wasn’t shivering. That was a bad sign that meant Steve didn’t have much time left to get him warmed up.

He scooped Bambi up into his arms and hurried back to the cabin, muscles burning with exertion as he tried not to jar the guy. In his severely hypothermic state, any sudden movements might send him into cardiac arrest. The snowdrifts slowed him down, and Bambi was tall and not exactly light. Steve’s arms and legs were screaming by the time he got up to the spare bedroom opposite his own.

He removed the jacket before cutting Bambi out of his wet jeans. He cut off the hoodie as well even though it was dry. The more skin surface he exposed, the faster the electric blanket could warm him up. Pulling off the cut sections of the hoodie revealed distinctive abrasions on Bambi’s wrists. About a quarter-inch wide—just the right width and location for zip tie handcuffs. Not the cheap zip ties from hardware stores, but thick, high-quality plastic ones used by professionals. The bruise on Bambi’s right cheek suddenly took on another meaning.

Just what the hell kind of trouble had Steve walked into? Something to worry about later. Right now, his first priority was to get Bambi warmed up. He got the electric blanket from his room and draped it over the guy. After setting it to the lowest setting, Steve checked fingers and toes for the tell-tale black of frostbite. None. No frostbite on his earlobes either. Thank God the guy had thought to pull up the hood on both the hoodie and the jacket. Nose was also fine. Bambi was goddamned lucky it hadn’t been a windy night.

Steve pulled a watch cap over Bambi’s head and tucked in the edges of the electric blanket to keep the warmth from escaping. That done, he sat back on his heels and studied the stranger passed out in his spare bed.

He looked about mid-twenties, with dark brown hair that was left longer on top. Steve put him at around six feet, with a lean build. Buried as he was under the thick electric blanket, he looked small and vulnerable, the purpling bruise standing out against his pale, olive skin. Long lashes cast shadows on his drawn-looking cheeks. His profile was heart-achingly beautiful. Steve wondered what color his eyes were.

That thought pulled Steve up short. What the fuck was he doing wondering about Bambi’s eyes when he should be worrying about who might come looking for him. Steve checked Bambi’s pulse—cardiac arrest was a very real concern when it came to hypothermia. It was getting stronger. A good sign. That meant it should be safe to leave him for long enough to make sure the house was secure and all the alarms working.

A healthy color had returned to Bambi’s face and lips by the time Steve checked on him ten minutes later. Steve turned the electric blanket setting up another notch and set his watch alarm to ring in an hour so he could check on Bambi’s condition.

It was going to be a long night.

*

Bucky woke up surrounded by so much glorious warmth that it took him a moment to remember the terror and bitter cold that was his last waking memory. He kept his eyes closed, but it didn’t stop the nightmare of the last two days returning to him. His heart started to pound, his muscles tensed up, ready to do _something_. He made himself lie still and open his eyes just enough to scan the room. It was pretty small, enough to fit a single bed and a chest of drawers with a bit of room to spare. Once he was sure he was alone, he pushed the heavy weight of an electric blanket off and sat up, wincing when he jarred his injured left ankle. Cold air collided with the bare skin of his arms. The fact that his rescuer had stripped him down to T-shirt and boxers made his skin crawl, but then his clothes were probably wet from lying in the snow.

He very much wanted to hide in the warm fuzzy cocoon he’d woken up in and pretend for a little while that he was safe, but he made himself take stock. The first thing he registered was that door of the bedroom wasn’t all the way closed. He’d be more reassured by that if the fucking snow and cold weren’t as effective a barrier to freedom as a locked door. He should never have let Becca convince him to watch all those horror movies where someone got rescued by a lunatic.

The room was bare but cozy. The pale blue bedsheets and generic blanket could’ve been bought from any Walmart. Nothing that definitively screamed serial killer, but nothing that didn’t, either. So jury was still out on that. The window on the left side of the bed and the one at the foot of the bed both overlooked a forest of bare trees covered in snow, not a single house in sight. From the length of the shadows, he put the time at around noon. Fuck, it looked cold out there. No way he would survive for long without proper clothing. Every part of him cringed away from the memory of cold, the way it stung and prickled and burned and sapped his strength, making it hard to think.

He got up, cursing softly at the cold bite of the air, and yanked on the sweatpants draped over the foot of the bed. First clue there. Whoever found him was about his height and weight. He picked up the hoodie next to it and blinked at the size of it. Great. His rescuer, or possible captor, was a giant with slim hips. He pulled on the hoodie, rolled up the sleeves just enough to expose his hands but not the ugly, scabbed-over marks on his wrists. He sneaked out of the room on silent, socked feet, moving slowly to compensate for the pain in his injured ankle. Opposite his room was another room with its door closed. Another bedroom? He glanced inside the open door of the tiny bathroom. A small, enclosed shower cubicle was in the corner and a washer and dryer were stacked up in the other corner.

He emerged onto an interior balcony that looked out over the living space on the floor below. The space looked warm and cozy, everything constructed of red brick and honey-toned wood. The whole of the interior was flooded with light from the wall of windows that made up the right side of the house. An easel was angled to catch the light from the windows, but the canvas on it was bare. The small table next to the easel held a collection of paintbrushes, a paint-stained palette, tubes of paint, a cup full of pencils. A worn, stuffed armchair was placed perpendicular to a comfortable-looking couch that didn’t match—the armchair upholstered in dark blue, while the couch was an old-fashioned looking thing with a light green and blue pattern of some sort. In front of the wood box stacked with firewood sorted by size was an iron wood stove. A fire burned cheerfully inside it. The house was neat and bare, and didn’t give him a fucking clue about the potential homicidal tendencies of its owner. 

He couldn’t see anyone from where he stood, but he could hear someone moving around underneath him. From the smell that wafted up to him, they were in the middle of cooking something savory and nourishing that made his stomach growl.

He crept down the stairs, nearly swallowing his tongue when one step about halfway down screamed in protest the moment he settled his weight on it. He froze. After a few seconds, he heard the sound of footsteps and a door opening and closing. Sounded like his rescuer just went out the back door. He hurried down the stairs and peeked round the corner. A breakfast counter separated the small, empty kitchen from the rest of the room. Time to scope out the house.

The selection of books on the bookshelf against the left-side wall showed a taste for non-fiction. Art, history, war strategy. The war strategy books were a little worrying. The mantel over the fireplace held only two photos. The first was a candid shot of a serious-looking, skinny, blond kid caught in mid-speech showing a piece of paper to an equally blonde woman. She had her arm around the kid and was studying the paper with her lips quirked into a soft smile. Based on their resemblance, she was probably his mother.

The second photo. Wow. The kid had grown up to be a major hottie. He made even a crew cut look good. He stood together with three men; a stocky, strawberry blond white guy grinning like a loon, an Asian guy with a sour expression, and a black guy with a quiet smile. Blondie’s smile was wide and bright. He stood straight and tall and shone with earnestness. All of them were dressed in the olive green service uniforms of the US Army.

“You’re up.”

Bucky spun around at the sound of a deep voice behind him, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up from his ankle. Fuck, the dude was some kind of ninja-level silent.

And _wow_.

That was definitely Blondie from the photos, but older, maybe around mid-thirties. He looked like a fantasy of a rugged outdoorsman with his dark blond beard and shaggy hair desperately in need of a cut. Or fingers combing through it. Shoulders to make angels weep narrowed down to slim hips.

He had perfect cheekbones offset by a big nose with a bump in it. Blue eyes lined with the thickest, longest lashes Bucky had ever seen. He wore a dark green and blue plaid flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal a white long-sleeved undershirt and soft, worn sweatpants that hugged slim hips and hinted at long, muscled legs.

Jesus _Christ._ Bucky felt like he’d stumbled onto a porn set—Hot Lumberjack Hunk meets City Slicker Twink.

_Think with your head, Barnes, not your dick. Ted Bundy was good-looking, too._

“Hi!” Bucky pasted on a wide smile. “Thanks for, you know, uh… taking me in?” Tell him your name, make it personal. “I’m Bucky.” God, what else to say?

Lumberjack Hunk nodded. “I’m Steve,” he said, in a deep baritone. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Hungry.” Bucky gave his best sheepish smile. “Ankle hurts like a bitch, though.”

“Lunch is almost ready,” Steve said. “There’s enough for two, so that’s one problem sorted. If you want, I can look at that ankle for you after we eat?”

Steve’s voice was calm and assured, the kind of voice that inspired trust and confidence. Bucky found himself nodding. “Thanks.”

“What were you doing out in the snow at night? There’s nothing for miles around.”

The question sounded casual, but Steve’s eyes were watchful. Bucky widened his eyes and put a little extra sparkle into them, trying to look clueless rather than panicked.

“I was… driving through the area with friends. Took a week off from work to head down to Sugarbush for some skiing. I’m an engineer,” Bucky tacked on awkwardly. “I must’ve gotten turned around when we stopped to take a leak.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. And okay, that story had holes the size of the Death Star in it and didn’t explain the bruise on his face or the zip tie marks on his wrist—marks Steve would’ve definitely seen when he’d taken off Bucky's clothes. Maybe he could play it off as a sex thing, like ha ha oh by the way these marks are because I like my partners to tie me up… which wasn’t exactly a lie. But how to even bring that up?

“If you need the phone, it’s over here.” Steve walked to the side table next to the wall and wrote something out on a notepad next to the cordless phone on the table.  “Address, phone number.” He tapped the paper.

When Bucky approached the table, he recognized the black jacket hanging on a nearby hook. It was the jacket he’d been wearing when Steve found him; utilitarian, lots of pockets to hold things like zip ties, knives, guns. He’d lifted it off the hook before sneaking out of the house his kidnappers had held him in. He’d hated wearing it, it belonged to _them_. A shiver crawled over Bucky's skin.

He dragged his gaze away from the jacket to find Steve watching him. “Thanks,” he said, belatedly. Steve nodded and went back into the kitchen, making it clear that he had privacy to use the phone. Steve seemed like a guy with a rock-solid core of decency. Maybe that was just Bucky’s dick talking, but he didn’t think so. He’d always had good instincts, and his training had honed them even more. He didn’t think he was wrong about Steve.

For the first time since someone had wrestled him into the back of an SUV two days ago, Bucky began to hope. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, one that changed from time to time, but which he was always given and which he always dutifully memorized.

*

Bucky’s eyes were gray—a clear, cool, light gray, like the icicles that formed on the edge of the cabin’s roof after a cold snap. So that answered at least one question. With his big eyes and coltish legs, Bambi had turned out to be a surprisingly apt nickname. Steve still had plenty more questions about the beautiful young man with guileless eyes and a sheepish smile, who spoke with self-deprecating humor as though there wasn’t a bruise on his face and restraint marks on his wrist.

Steve blinked and tried to focus on adding the finishing touches to the pasta sauce. Not much he could do about it now except wait to see how much Bucky was willing to share. He wasn’t above trying to listen in on Bucky’s conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line, but Bucky was careful to keep his voice pitched too low for Steve to make out his words. Another sign of caution at odds with Bucky’s wide-eyed charm.

He tasted the sauce one last time, turned off the flame, and turned around to see Bucky limping towards him with the phone in his hand. Gone was the wide, almost vapid smile, replaced by something more vulnerable and honest—a haunted, hunted look that shadowed his eyes, mingled with an odd expression that looked something like relief. He held out the phone to Steve.

Curiosity piqued, Steve put the phone to his ears.

“Sergeant Major Rogers,” a man said, in an unmistakable, no-fucks-to-give way. “Mighty small world.”

The last person in the world Steve expected to hear. “General Fury.” He flicked his gaze over to Bucky, who somehow had a direct line to a general in charge of an alphabet agency.

“It appears we have a situation on our hands that requires your assistance.”

“I’m listening.”

“I assume your line is secure?”

“Old habits die hard,” Steve said.

“The man in your house is James Buchanan Barnes. Son of George Barnes, who happens to be working on a very important project for SHIELD.”

“I see.”

“Two days ago, he disappeared from the parking lot of the ski resort he was staying at. And now here he is calling from your house in the woods.”

“How can I help?”

“As far as anyone outside SHIELD knows, Dr. Barnes is working on a project with no strategic purpose whatsoever. It seems we have a mole in our organization. And until we find out who that mole is, James remains at risk as leverage over his father.”

This is what Steve had come to hate about the service—people reduced to terms like leverage, assets, liabilities. The person nervously chewing his lip while he watched Steve and Fury discuss the threat to his safety should be worth more than that. And Fury knew that Steve wouldn’t be able to do anything else but offer the protection Bucky needed.

“You want me to keep him here till you’ve solved your problem.”

“Yes,” Fury said. “I don't know how high the mole’s security clearance is, but if I start moving my people, they might figure it out.”

Bucky approached cautiously and motioned at the phone. Steve tilted it so Bucky could listen in. “How long?” Steve asked.

“We estimate no more than two weeks. The number of people with the security clearance to know what Dr. Barnes is working on is not high.”

“They could be here in day or two. There's not that many places he could've gone after escaping.” What Steve really meant was that there weren’t many places where Bucky could’ve been found alive. If he’d gone a few feet to the left or the right, if Steve hadn’t found him in time…

“It’ll be more than that,” Bucky interjected. “I didn't straight line it. I headed out in a different direction, then I covered my tracks when I changed course. Hopefully they’ll think they lost my trail because the tracks got covered by the snow. They’ll have to spread out from that point on. That’ll buy us some time.” To Steve, he said, “I've been a high value target more than half my life, and good old Uncle Nick there is my godfather. I know how to lay a false trail.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. Anyone who had the guts to call General Fury ‘good old Uncle Nick’ clearly had a level of courage, or foolhardiness, that deserved respect.

Bucky returned Steve’s gaze with a level one of his own that revealed the quick intelligence and resolve that had seen him escaping his kidnappers. Not to mention nearly managing to fool Steve as well—an experienced operative and a pretty good judge of character. Bucky had worked those wide, gray eyes and pouty lips to his advantage. If it wasn’t for his injuries, Steve wouldn’t have doubted that he was dealing with nothing more than a hapless kid who lacked the common sense not to wander off into a snow-covered landscape.

“How do you know they won’t suspect you changed direction?” Steve was just testing by this point. Fury remained quiet on the other end of the line, as if letting the two of them work this out themselves.

“Because I made sure to act like a dumb city boy who couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag.” Bucky held his gaze without wavering. “And I never stopped acting like my ankle was practically broken.”

“Okay.” A smile tugged at the corner of Steve’s lips. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d been taken in. “We should have about a week or two, depending on their luck.” Addressing Fury, he said, “You’d better step it up.”

“That’s my godson, Rogers. You better believe we’re working as fast as we can.”

Steve looked at Bucky. “You okay with staying here?”

“Nick told me a bit about you. I’m definitely okay with staying here.”

“Alright,” Steve said, to both Fury and Bucky.

“I’ll be in touch.” Fury hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky slumped back against the counter, knees suddenly gone weak as the tension drained out of his body. After two days of keeping every worry and fear on lockdown, he could finally let his guard down. Fury had vouched for Steve personally. An ex-Delta Force Team Leader. They didn’t come more capable than that.

Between one breath and the next, the stress and terror he’d been holding at bay for the past three days hit him all at once. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You okay?”

Bucky bit his lip, because no, he wasn’t really okay, but he didn’t want to admit it. He wasn’t all the way out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively, and if he gave in to the fear now, he might not be able to patch his calm back together. He still needed to wait out the next two weeks while Nick eliminated the threat with what he guessed would be extreme prejudice.

He didn’t think he’d be really okay till he could go home and reassure himself that his parents and Becca were all okay and reassure them that he was okay, too. And right now, what sucked the most was that he couldn’t even speak to them. His dad was still sequestered in a top secret facility somewhere while he worked on whatever it was he was doing for SHIELD. His mom’s and Becca’s phones might be monitored. Which is why he’d called Nick—the man was paranoid enough to maintain his own secure line that only a handful of people knew about.

“Your ankle looks like it’s bothering you.” Steve’s gaze was understanding as he let the subject drop. “I can check that for you.”

Bucky nodded. He’d twisted it when the kidnappers had grabbed him. Even though he’d rested it as much as possible while he waited for his chance to escape, by the end of his journey through the snowy woods, he’d been near to tears—hobbling along as fast as he could over uneven ground, every creak and groan of a forest in winter the sound of his kidnappers catching up to him. 

Steve came round the counter, every movement careful and slow, like he was trying not to spook Bucky. “If you put your arm around my shoulder, I can help you.”

Bucky nearly sobbed with relief. “Thank you.” He slung his arm over Steve’s ridiculously broad shoulders while Steve wrapped an arm around his waist. They were nearly of a height, Bucky couldn’t help noticing, as they made their way into the living room. Steve deposited him on the couch and crouched down to remove Bucky’s sock. Steve’s shoulders were heavily padded with muscles and looked about a mile wide. Bucky had a mad urge to squeeze those muscles to check if they were as squishable as they looked.

The hair on the crown of Steve’s head was sun-bleached to a pale gold that shimmered in the light coming through the windows. The long strands held just a bit of a wave at the ends and looked badly in need of a good hair treatment. His beard was a little overgrown and had just a hint of ginger. It was criminal how good the man looked without seeming to make even the slightest effort.

Steve picked up Bucky’s left foot, fringe sliding down to cover what had to be the longest, thickest lashes in the world. He examined Bucky’s ankle with gentle, calloused fingers. Bucky bit his lip as the warmth of Steve’s hand seeped into him, helping to dispel the chill that had sunk deep into his bones. Those long lashes swept up to reveal eyes that stole the breath right out of Bucky’s lungs. This close, he could see that they were actually teal. Not just blue, oh no, that would’ve been bad enough. Fucking _teal._ It was complete and utter bullshit.

“Does this hurt?” Steve rotated Bucky’s foot slowly.

Bucky gave a little yelp as pain shot up his leg and dragged him back to reality.

“Sorry.” Steve grimaced. “I’ll take that as a yes. Looks like a bad strain.” Steve’s voice turned carefully neutral as he took an intense interest in probing the area around the ankle. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

And the hits just kept coming. “High value target, remember?” Bucky couldn’t quite keep the tremor out of his voice. “They were very… professional.”

Steve stilled as he looked up. “You’re safe here.”

The fierce look in Steve’s eyes, the sureness in his deep voice, helped a tight knot inside Bucky uncoil.

“I’ll get something to wrap your ankle.” With a parting squeeze to Bucky’s shoulder, Steve went up the stairs and came back not long after with a roll of bandage. His hands were gentle and careful as he wrapped up Bucky’s injured ankle. “You can take it off when you shower.” Steve spoke in a soothing voice. “I’ll wrap it up for you again when you’re done.”

“Is that a polite way of telling me I smell?” It was a weak attempt at a joke, but Bucky didn’t want to be treated like he was fragile. In the kitchen, Steve had looked at him with respect. He wanted that back.

“Hey.” A surprised gleam of amusement lit Steve’s eyes. “I’m just making a suggestion.”

“Okay.” Bucky pouted. “Fine.”

Steve’s gaze dropped to his lips and lingered for a moment before he looked down at his hands as he continued wrapping.

Well, now. _Well, now._ The prospect of being trapped in an isolated cabin with the most gorgeous slab of manhood Bucky had ever seen just took on all sorts of interesting possibilities. He could very well wrap his own ankle, but the prospect of having Steve do it—having those thick, capable fingers wrap around his ankle and move it this way and that—there was no way he could resist.

Something about the man made Bucky want to curl up against him and purr in the shelter of that big, strong body. He tried not to drool as he watched the bones and tendons in Steve’s hands flex and shift as he tucked in the end of the bandage and secured it with a clip. Good thing Steve’s forearms were covered by the sleeves of his sweater, or Bucky would probably try to lick them. He was getting a little dizzy just trying to picture them.

“All done.” Steve sat back on his heels. “Do you want to eat first?”

Bucky’s stomach growled at the mention of food, which kind of answered the question for both of them. “Yes,” Bucky said, with more than a little enthusiasm.

*

Steve watched as Bucky very intently but politely shoved stew and rice into his face. Not wanting to get between Bucky and his food, Steve let him eat in peace until Bucky put down his fork and spoon, gave a soft, contented sigh and leaned back in his seat.

“When did you last eat?” Steve asked.

“Dinner.” Bucky straightened in his seat and wrapped his arms around himself.

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna need to ask you some questions.” Steve hated having to remind him of his ordeal, but the more information he had, the better he could protect Bucky.

“No. Yeah. I get it.” Bucky made a weak attempt at a smile. “It’s fine.”

“What can you tell me about the men that grabbed you?”

A calm settled over Bucky, his eyes going distant as he gathered his thoughts. When he spoke, it was calm and business-like.

“Four guys. Two grabbed me. Two in the SUV—black with tinted windows. They were professional. Operated like clockwork. No visible nerves. They had everything planned out before they took me. They knew what they were doing and where they were going. No attacks of conscience.” Bucky shrugged and looked away, shadows in his eyes. “I tried every trick I knew. Told them lots of personal details. Did the whole terrified but trying hard to keep it together thing, you know, to get sympathy.” He chewed his lip and hugged himself a little tighter. “They took me to a house a few miles from here.” 

Right then, Steve wanted to do a lot more than punch them out. “Do you know where it is?”

Bucky shook his head. “I got turned around after I left the false trail. I don’t know how long I walked for. I left, I think, around nine last night?”

“I found you just past midnight.” Bucky had been walking through snow, alone in the dark, for three hours, not knowing whether he would find help or be found by his kidnappers.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “That was longer than I thought. I was pretty out of it by the end.”

“Hypothermia,”Steve said. “Causes disorientation. How did you get away?”

“They got careless. I guess they thought there wasn’t any risk of me running since they thought my ankle was much worse than it was. And let’s not forget the helpless, terrified puppy act,” Bucky said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Old house with old locks that I could pick with a paper clip I found. Waited for the guy on watch to take a leak, took the jacket, and ran.”

Bucky could pick locks. Of course he could pick locks. Nick Fury was the most paranoid bastard Steve had ever met. But all the teaching in the world would count for nothing without the nerve and determination to see it through.

“Can you describe the men?”

“Big guys. Built.” Bucky eyed Steve’s shoulders. “Not quite as built as you. About your height. They always kept their faces covered and never spoke where I could hear their voices. Which is good right?”

Steve made a noncommittal sound. Keeping their faces covered meant they were serious about returning him alive, but not speaking in front of Bucky seemed pretty extreme, and that was worrying.

“You’re not saying yes,” Bucky said.

“Fury might not just have a mole in his organization—he might have an entire rogue SHIELD Strike Team.” Steve had considered keeping the information from Bucky, but he’d proved he could stay calm under pressure. Forewarned was forearmed. “The upside to this is that we’re looking at four to five people tops—the four men who grabbed you, and the mole, assuming they weren’t one of the four. A tight-knit team like the one you described will most probably be working alone.”

Bucky bit his lip, a shadow of fear in his eyes.

“I’m good at what I do, Bucky. If you do as I say, we should be fine.”

Bucky took a calming breath while he nibbled at his lip. It was a very distracting habit. He nodded, but his smile was strained. “So, Special Forces, huh?”

“Ex. I’m retired.”

“Nick said I can trust you. He doesn’t say that about a lot of people. How do you know each other?”

Steve ignored the ingrained reluctance to discuss his military career, a reluctance that had only grown stronger after living alone for a year—Bucky had a right to ask since he’d been placed under Steve’s protection. “I served under him for a few years in the Army before he moved to head up SHIELD. Can't say much more than that.”

Bucky nodded and let the subject drop. As the son of a scientist doing classified work for SHIELD, he’d be used to having details kept from him. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds as Steve tried to find something to say beyond that. He’d spent sixteen years of his life fighting in one war or another, first in Afghanistan, then in other more covert wars. But after that last mission in Russia, he was done. To find out that the biological weapons he’d helped capture weren’t going to be destroyed, but would be reverse-engineered instead had been the final straw. He was tired. He was done. He'd submitted his resignation and had a hell of a time getting it approved. If Colonel Phillips' hadn't intervened, he'd be finishing up his service as a conscientious objector, shuffling paperwork somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere. Thanks to the Colonel, he got to take some time off and decide what else he could do to help. Fury had gotten it into his head that Steve should help by joining SHIELD, and called him every few months to state his case.

“Are you an artist? You’ve got all that stuff there.” Bucky pointed at the small table covered in art supplies.

Steve appreciated the use of the present tense considering the canvas was completely bare, and some of his supplies were still in their packaging. “I guess you could say that. I was in art school, actually.”

Bucky propped his chin on his hand, head tilted at an angle that made his eyes glow in the winter sunlight streaming in through the window. “What happened to change that?”

“9/11 happened.”

“Oh.” Bucky straightened up in his seat. “I’m sorry if I brought up any—”

“It’s alright. I didn’t lose anyone… but I enlisted the next day. Seemed the right thing to do.” At the time.

Bucky nodded, his eyes grave and sad. He waited a beat for Steve to say more, but, seeming to sense Steve’s reticence, he said, “Is that what you’re doing out here? Trying to get back to your art? ‘Cause this place seems kind of the stereotypical ‘artist’s retreat’.”

Steve huffed a laugh and looked down at his plate. “Something like that.”

Taking up his art again had sounded like a good idea when his VA counselor suggested it as a way to help him process all the fucked up shit he’d seen in the Army. But after a few months of painting scenes from his memories—ones full of blood and smoke and bodies bent at strange angles—he’d come to hate the shades of red and black and brown, their colors muted further by sand and dust. What he wanted were scenes filled with vibrant greens and blues; bright, cheerful yellows. A cabin in a remote part of Vermont should have been the perfect place for that.

“How’s it going?”

Steve pointed at the blank canvas. “Very slowly.”

Bucky pulled a face. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not.” After a year in the cabin, all he’d managed were some stiff, perfunctory still life paintings of random items that he found on his hikes. He gave Bucky a wry smile. “I finished a few pieces. The less said about them the better.”

“I’ll try to stay out of your way—”

“Don’t worry about it. I can not-paint just as well with you around as without.”

Bucky laughed, a soft, warm sound that brushed like velvet against Steve’s skin. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Steve found himself unable to look away. There was something about Bucky… a gentleness to the set of his eyes and his smile, yet he’d proved himself to have a core of solid steel. It was a mix that Steve couldn’t help but find fascinating.

And that thought was enough to shake him out of his reverie. He stood up. “I should go do the dishes.”

Bucky blinked at him. “I can help,” he said, belatedly, starting to push himself up.

“No, it’s okay.” Steve picked up Bucky’s plate in addition to his own. “You need to rest that ankle.” To say that he fled the scene would not be altogether inaccurate.

*

When Steve came in from checking the sensors that ringed his property, making sure the batteries were charged and everything was working despite the cold, he found Bucky dozing on the couch. He slept on his side, curled into a little ball with his hands tucked between knees to keep them warm. There was something very endearing about the sight. At least until he remembered that Bucky was probably still exhausted after spending hours hiking through the woods at night in freezing temperatures.

God, what he’d been through. Steve’s fingers twitched with the urge to brush back the fringe flopping onto Bucky’s forehead. He wanted to promise him that he was safe. A promise that Steve personally knew meant absolutely fucking nothing. With a sigh, he went up to get an extra quilt. Bucky was so out of it that he didn’t even twitch when Steve covered him with it.

Bucky finally woke about an hour later. He sat up and blinked at the quilt before his eyes sought out Steve. “Thanks,” he said, fingers stroking the soft fabric of the quilt. He looked out the window. The sun was already low on the horizon, and shadows lay long on the snow-covered ground. “What time is it?”

“Just past four.”

Bucky stretched, unselfconscious and languid, face scrunching into a funny expression as though he needed to wake up his face muscles too. Steve hurriedly switched his attention back to his book.

“So, uh…” Bucky craned his neck to get a look at Steve’s book. “What is there to do to pass the time? Is there a computer I could borrow to get online?”

“Nope. No internet here.”

Bucky stared at him for a full five seconds with a look of abject horror on his face. “What do you mean no internet? You have electricity but no internet?”

Steve shrugged. “Didn’t see the need.” He tried not to laugh at Bucky’s expression. It didn’t help that he had sleep creases on his cheek and his hair was all pushed up on side.

“It’s like you’re from the Dark Ages,” Bucky wailed. He clutched at his hair. “What am I gonna do with myself for two weeks? You’re cutting me off from my life’s blood here!”

“You shouldn’t be checking your social media anyway, or whatever you youths call it.”

“But movies! Entertainment!”

“Read a book. Paint.”

Bucky looked pointedly at the book shelf. “You have no fiction books. I have zero artistic ability.”

Steve smirked before getting up and going to his room. When he came back, he held out his laptop to Bucky. “Here. I set up a new user account just for you. You can add a password to it if you want.”

His own account was now password protected. Wouldn’t do to have Bucky stumble on his porn history with all those links to his favorite videos featuring lean guys with dark hair and sweet, mischievous smiles. He was willing to admit he had a type.

“Oh, thank God.” Bucky’s face lit up as he took the laptop with reverent hands. _“Entertainment.”_ He opened the laptop, then closed it again. “Just how old do you think I am?”

Steve rubbed at his mouth and grabbed the excuse to study Bucky; his wide, gray eyes, straight nose, pink lips with a slightly sulky look to them, that beautiful jawline. All of it framed by dark brown hair that looked temptingly soft. “Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

Bucky scrunched his nose at this assessment. “I’m twenty-six, actually. What about you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Steve bit back a smile as Bucky tilted his head and studied him as thoroughly as he’d studied Bucky.

Bucky chewed his lip in silent contemplation. “Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six,” Steve said, although some days he felt so much older. Days when he didn’t get enough sleep because of nightmares. Days when old injuries ached in the cold. Days when nothing seemed to matter and all he wanted to do was stay in bed.

“You look good for your age.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s a compliment, Steve. You’re really working this whole shaggy, mountain man look. You’ve even got the flannel.”

Steve ducked his head, not knowing what to do with the compliment.

“Are you blushing?”

“No.” Steve got up and headed to the kitchen.

“You _are._ _”_ Bucky hobbled after him, cackling in a most undignified manner. “I can even see it through all that mountain man facial hair.”

“Shut up and go sit down before you make your ankle worse.” Try as he might, some of his amusement at Bucky’s behavior still leaked through.

“Nice try,” Bucky said, as he hitched himself up onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. He watched with his chin propped on his hand as Steve got out yesterday’s leftovers to heat up for dinner. “Thanks for, you know, taking me in and everything. I know I’m intruding and eating up your winter supplies.”

“You’re not intruding.” It was only when Steve said it that he realized it was true. After living alone in an isolated cabin for over a year, having Bucky in the house made the prospect of the coming two weeks just a little bit warmer and a little bit brighter. That unsettling realization made him careless of his next words. “You are eating up my supplies, though.”

Bucky looked stricken, and Steve immediately felt like a heel. “It’s not a problem, Buck. I was just making a joke. A lousy one. The nearest town is Groton, about forty minutes drive from here. There’s a supermarket there. I can always restock.”

“Do you need to do that soon?”

Steve didn't like the idea of leaving Bucky alone in the cabin, and he couldn't risk bringing Bucky along with him since his kidnappers might be keeping an eye on the town. “We should have enough for two weeks. But don’t complain when I start serving up remixed leftovers.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has canon-typical violence. <3

“Would it kill you to get a Netflix account, Steve?”

Bucky’s voice was dry as he scrolled through something on the laptop. He sat with his back to the couch armrest, long legs stretched out with the computer on his lap, relaxed and languid like a cat even with one ankle wrapped in a compression bandage. He looked almost swallowed up in Steve’s too-big sweater.

Steve had to look away, a strange sensation twisting through his chest at the sight of Bucky comfortably ensconced on his couch, wearing his clothes, bundled up in his quilt. It didn’t seem like just five short days since Bucky had appeared in his life.

“Maybe read some science fiction while you’re at it?” Bucky continued, waving a hand at the bookshelf. “A potboiler or two. A romance novel? Those are good for the soul. At the very least non-fiction about stuff that’s not about wars long over?”

Steve shrugged. “You can learn a lot from history.” His fingers itched with a sudden urge to capture Bucky exactly in that moment. It was the first real spark of interest he’d had in drawing something not pulled from his past.

“Sure,” Bucky said. “But there’s a lot to be said from learning about the present, too.”

Steve froze at this weird echo of his thoughts. If it was a sign that he shouldn’t let that impulse slip away, he was grabbing on to it. Bucky gave him a startled glance when he surged up from his seat.

“Are you drawing something?” Bucky asked, when Steve sat back down in his armchair with his sketchpad and a pencil.

Steve flipped past the still life sketches of random junk he had lying around to a blank page. He took a breath and loosened his grip on the pencil. “You, if you don’t mind?”

“Me?” Bucky’s eyebrows rose and his eyes got really wide. “Really?” He straightened up and craned his neck to peek at the page.

“I haven’t started yet,” Steve said, to keep Bucky from falling off the couch.

Bucky pouted at the answer. He had lips perfect for pouting, Steve couldn’t help but notice. Yet again. Like he’d been noticing several times a day since Bucky had first woken up. 

A slow smile made its way across Bucky’s face, a teasing, tempting sort of smile that made Steve think of rumpled sheets and warm, naked skin. “How do you want me?”

Steve firmly admonished his libido to stay out of the discussion. “What you were doing was fine.”

“Boring,” Bucky said, with a teasing warmth in his eyes, but he leaned back and picked up the laptop again.

“That’s good,” Steve said, over the scratch of his pencil. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

Bucky mumbled something as he tapped on the keyboard.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘That’s kinda hard to do.’” Bucky flashed him a quicksilver smile before looking back down.

Steve’s libido reminded him—loudly—that his dick hadn’t been touched by someone other than himself in more than a year, and Bucky wasn’t exactly being subtle with his signals. It was more than a little tempting to see what would happen if he responded, but Bucky’s impending departure threw a pall over that thought. Steve didn’t do so well with flings. He had a tendency to hold on too hard to people he cared about, and he could very easily see himself caring for Bucky too much.

He tried not to think about it as he sketched in the foundation lines. Since he had one chance to get it right, he took his time, pausing often to look up at Bucky. If they had more time, he’d have asked Bucky to sit for him. But Bucky would be going home in two weeks. No more sound of Bucky humming while he did the dishes, or the creak of floorboards under his uneven gait. The little sigh he made every time he opened the fridge and stared inside, disappointed anew that new and more appetizing things hadn't appeared since the last time he checked it.

The cabin would be back to its quiet self. The thought left Steve feeling strangely bereft. Time for a distraction.

“Why’d you try to get away? You must’ve known the chances of you being found were pretty slim.” The question had been bugging him since he’d found out that Bucky’d been trained on what to do in a kidnap situation. Since he was taken as leverage, his chances of making it out were pretty high, compared to escaping in winter with no guarantee that help was nearby.

Bucky hunched lower in his seat, looking small and vulnerable.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve said in a rush. He was a fucking brute, ripping wings off a butterfly to distract himself from his own problems.

Bucky shook his head. “I should talk about it. It helps me—talking about stuff.” He chewed on his lip. “My dad… I don’t know what he’s working on, but it’s probably not something I want offered up to the highest bidder.”

“So you risked your life just so his work wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands.”

“I mean… it wasn’t like… heroic or anything. He’s not young. His health isn’t the best—too many years spent in front of his computers. And when it comes to family? He’s not exactly rational. If he got word that someone had me, he’d probably do something reckless like offer himself in exchange.” Bucky’s fingers picked at the quilt. “I figured my chances of making it out were higher than his.” 

“I get that,” Steve said. He would’ve done exactly the same thing for Sarah.

Bucky blushed and looked down at the laptop. Shit. How long had he been staring at Bucky? Steve tried to focus on his drawing. It was a good way of ignoring the sudden press of emotions he didn’t want to examine.

*

Bucky was part way through Monsters Inc when he got a message from Becca. He'd caved in and installed Netflix and Signal app on Steve's laptop—these things were important, goddammit.

sisterbear123: still up?

brotherbear123: it’s only midnight. That’s a dumbass question

sisterbear123: a girl can hope that her brother is finally getting lucky

brotherbear123: fuck you

sisterbear123: save it for steve asljdf

brotherbear123: I regret telling you anything

sisterbear123: you’d think you’d have learned by now

brotherbear123: how’s mom?

sisterbear123: holding up :/ she’s been calling Nick every day asking when we can see you. Dad has too. I think Nick had to hog tie dad to keep him from writing up some weird ass program to find you at your super secret luuurrrve cabin

brotherbear123: It. Is. Not. A. Love. Cabin.

sisterbear123: but you waaaaaant it to be

Bucky closed his eyes and resisted the urge to bash his head against the screen. Becca knew him too well. Five minutes into telling her about Steve and Becca had already sniffed out his massive crush. After spending eight days in close proximity with Steve, that massive crush had already escalated into something he didn’t dare name.

sisterbear123: you there?

brotherbear123: yeah

sisterbear123: seriously though, how are you holding up?

brotherbear123: pretty good, considering.

Considering he was sitting in the living room which was probably two degrees warmer than the fucking moon because his heart rate had suddenly ratcheted up ten minutes after he’d gone into the small bedroom he was using. The walls had pressed in on him, making him feel trapped and breathless.

sisterbear123: we are gonna have a long talk when you get back

brotherbear123: love you too, sis

brotherbear123: any news from Nick?

That cagey bastard rarely replied his messages, so Bucky had to rely on the pressure one very determined Winnifred Barnes could bring to bear to get some crumbs of information.

sisterbear123: after a ten-minute epic guilt trip from mom, I can safely assure you that Nick has his best people working on it, no change to the timeline.

brotherbear123: fuck

sisterbear123: one more week till you get to come home

The easy answer to that should’ve been ‘I can’t wait’ but Bucky found himself hesitating over the keyboard. Much as he missed his family, going home meant having to say goodbye to Steve, and that was something he wasn’t quite ready to do.

He was still thinking of an answer when a door opened upstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps.

brotherbear123: gotta go! talk soon

Bucky exited the app and craned his neck to see Steve’s gigantic, sock-covered feet coming down the stairs. When he caught sight of Steve’s face, he closed the laptop.

“Steve? You okay?”

Steve nodded even though he looked anything but—his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed. “What are you doing down here? It’s warmer in your room.”

Bucky shrugged and scraped at one corner of the laptop with his finger. “I like the bigger space.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened on him. Bucky fussed with the quilt so he didn’t have to see the sympathy in Steve’s eyes. “You look like you need a distraction.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Pixar. Best distraction in the world.”

“I’m in.”

Bucky’s heart raced a little at Steve’s easy agreement. “But first.” Bucky unwrapped himself from the quilt, and stood up, grateful that his ankle had healed enough it didn’t need wrapping anymore. Steve watched with a bemused expression as Bucky spread the quilt out on the couch. “Okay, sit.” Following Bucky’s example, Steve sat on the quilt. “Feet up on table.”

Steve put his feet up on the table. Bucky proceeded to wrap the quilt loosely around their legs, making sure the ends draped over their socked feet. Steve didn’t say anything the whole time, just let Bucky shift him this way and that. From the corner of his eye, he could see the sad expression on Steve's face, as though he could tell that Bucky sometimes woke up in a panic and checked his fingers for the tell-tale black of frostbite. And then there were the ones where Steve lay on the floor in a pool of spreading blood, eyes dull and sightless, while the kidnappers dragged him away.

Bucky focused intently on tucking the edge of the quilt into the gap that separated them. “Now we’re ready.”

Bucky placed the laptop half on his lap and half on Steve's, found _The Incredibles_ on his Netflix, and pressed play. He didn't think _Up_ was a good idea—not when Steve looked so haunted. The first part of that movie was brutal.

He stole glances at Steve's profile now and then, and felt a little warm curl of happiness when he saw the corner of Steve's mouth lift. He relaxed and switched his focus to resisting the urge to lean into Steve, lured in by the warmth of his body and his whole—Steve-ness.

The fourth time he jerked away, Steve said, in a studiedly casual voice, “You still cold?”

“Yes.” Bucky’s answer was immediate and sure. Winifred Barnes had not raised a fool. He bit his lip and gave Steve a hopeful look.

Steve lifted his arm up. Bucky pressed himself against Steve’s side without a moment’s hesitation, sliding lower so he’d fit under Steve’s arm. He gave a soft sigh when the weight of that arm settled over his shoulders, another point of delicious warmth.

He had it bad. He had it so bad. Cuddling on the couch with the hottest guy in the universe and all he could think was that he’d happily stay there forever. Well, at least ninety-five percent of his brain was thinking that. The other five percent was busy trying to picture what Steve looked like naked because _damn_ but his chest felt packed with muscles. Firm and cushy. The perfect place to lay his head. Hands. Other things. He wasn’t picky.

Must be all that wood chopping and stacking. Steve had refilled the wood box once so far, and Bucky felt very blessed to have witnessed the sight of Steve with his ax. He handled that thing like an extension of himself, every movement smooth and graceful and powerful. After a few minutes of chopping, he stripped down to his light fleece jacket over a flannel shirt. God, what a sight. Bucky had drooled unabashedly while he’d creeped on Steve through the window.

And yet, even with that glorious mental image in his head, Bucky didn’t do anything. If it was anyone else—someone that didn’t matter—he’d have tried his luck. He’d put his hand on a thigh, stroke his thumb over the muscle, and see what kind of response he got. But with Steve, he wasn’t in any rush. He wanted to savor the quiet moment of peace, both of them sitting in a darkened room, helping the other to keep their demons at bay.

He was so goddamned fucked.

*

Steve finished washing the plate and handed it to Bucky to dry off, their shoulders bumping together now and then as they worked. Bucky didn’t seem inclined to put more distance between them, so he stayed right where he was. It was three days since they’d sat together on the couch and watched a movie till they were practically dozing off on each other. Since that night, Steve had found it increasingly difficult to resist the pull of Bucky’s presence. Bucky didn’t seem to make any effort at all.

It was a clear winter’s day, and they’d gotten some snow in the night. The view from the kitchen window showed them the weak afternoon sunlight filtering through snow-covered branches. Dry, fluffy snow blanketed the ground. It was a scene straight out of a Christmas card—peaceful and serene. So of course, that’s when the perimeter alarm went off.

Bucky’s eyes widened at the strident, repetitive blare of the klaxon. “That’s probably a deer, right?”

Steve dried his hands off, adrenaline already flooding his system. “ _You_ were no Bambi,” he said over his shoulder as he drew every curtain on the first floor of the cabin. 

“Hey! Who you calling Bambi?” Steve could hear the nerves in Bucky’s voice as he hobbled after Steve.

Steve opened his laptop and pulled up the security program to check which sensor had been triggered. It was the one placed six hundred yards from the back of the house. The most thickly wooded section. The section that gave the most cover to anyone trying to sneak up on them. But also the section with the most deer. He didn’t think it was a deer though.

“Come on.” Steve ran up to his room, laptop in hand.

Bucky hurried into the room after him. “Give me a gun.”

Steve stopped halfway through pulling on a bulletproof vest. “Never use a gun unless you’re ready to shoot to kill.”

“I don’t have to shoot to kill, I can shoot to incapacitate.” Bucky looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’m a trained marksman. Dad’s just as paranoid as Nick. I’m good enough to qualify for the Olympics team, but Dad didn’t think the publicity was a good idea.”

“That’s not in your file.” The file Fury had emailed him, which, come to think of it, was suspiciously spare on facts. After he holstered the Glock he’d kept in the nightstand ever since he found Bucky, he opened the gun safe and started checking his magazines. 

“Like I said,” Bucky continued. “Paranoid. But I guess it’s only paranoid if they’re wrong, right? I’m not asking to run around with you being a commando, but if you give me a gun, preferably _that_ one”—he pointed at the Sako A7 hunting rifle—“and you give me a scope, I can at least watch your back.” He whistled softly. “Also, looks like Dad and Nick aren’t the only paranoid ones. That’s a fucking arsenal you got in there.”

“Not paranoid enough.” Steve frowned down at his olive-tan camouflage vest as he filled up pockets with loaded magazines. “I should’ve bought one in winter camo.”

Bucky’s laugh had a slightly ragged edge to it. “Talk about high fashion. One for every season.”

“Things can go wrong in the field, Buck, and that’s not exactly a sniper rifle. It’s not as accurate, and you are literally loaded for bear. You might not have the time to set up a non-lethal shot.”

“Then I’ll take the shot.” Bucky swallowed, and his voice wavered a little, but his gaze was steady. “It’s you or them. I pick you.”

Having Bucky on his six would be an advantage, especially since he only had about fifteen minutes to get into position, but still he hesitated.

“I really don’t want them to get me again, Steve.”

Steve’s heart twisted into a hard, tight knot at the hint of fear in Bucky’s voice. He pulled the Sako out of the gun safe. “You stay upstairs and stay low. Try to change locations after every shot so they can't triangulate your location. If they do, you move downstairs. Magazines.” He held up two loaded magazines. “Three cartridges each. Don’t waste them.” He slotted one into the rifle and ejected it, making sure Bucky could see what he was doing before handing over the gun and the magazines. Then, he held out a box of cartridges. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I think that’s your territory.” Bucky stuffed the magazines into the pocket of his sweatpants before taking the box. “You’re the one running out to meet them.” He stuffed the box into the other pocket, then had to re-tie his pants because the weight of everything threatened to pull them down off his lean hips.

Steve almost took the rifle back, then. He didn’t want this sweet kid getting blood on his hands, but he reminded himself that looks to the contrary, Bucky was no kid, and had already escaped his kidnappers once. He could handle himself. Not letting him help would be doing him a disservice. Steve watched closely as Bucky acquainted himself with the bolt-action rifle, handling it with an ease and familiarity that helped ease some of Steve’s worries.

He pulled on ski pants over his jeans, strapped on a knife holster, and slid his tactical knife into place. He got his snow jacket and gloves on. The pants and jacket, at least, were a light gray, not for any other reason than they’d been on sale. He didn’t like having all that added bulk on, but it was too fucking cold outside for anything else. At least whoever was out there would be similarly hampered. “Okay.”  When he looked up, Bucky was watching him with a mix of fear and worry in his eyes. He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I promised Fury I’d watch out for you—I keep my promises.”

“I trust you.” Bucky bit his lip. Then he hugged Steve, brief but fierce, before stepping back. “You be careful out there.”

Steve nodded, and tried not to let on how much the words affected him. “They’re approaching from the northeast.” He led the way into Bucky’s room. “This window.” He pointed at the window that overlooked the woods behind the house. He set up the laptop on the bed and pulled up the security program, very glad he’d already walked Bucky through how to use it. “In case they bring in another team.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky threw him a jaunty mock salute and went to take up a position by the window. He slid the window open slightly and immediately shivered in the wind that blew in through the gap.

Steve tossed him a spare jacket. “Here.” The jacket Bucky had arrived in had been consigned to the trash after he’d ripped it apart to make sure there were no tracking devices in it.

Bucky shrugged into it with a grateful smile. “Give ’em hell.”

“Could still be a deer.”

Steve jogged out of the room with the sound of Bucky’s surprised laugh warming him.

He caught sight of the kidnappers after five minutes. He’d gone out the front door, keeping the cabin between him and the kidnappers, and circled round through the trees. There were four of them, big guys like Bucky had said. They were heading towards the cabin, guns in hand, their faces hidden by balaclavas.

White-hot anger flared at the sight of them. Steve didn’t usually let things get personal when he fought, but this time, he didn’t give a fuck about that. They’d come here to hunt Bucky down, and he was taking it very personally. Anger settled into a cold, focused clarity of purpose as he watched the four men creep through the trees: protect Bucky.

The dry, dusty snow crunched underfoot as the kidnappers moved slowly towards the house, but their cautious pace seemed more from habit than from true wariness, since they had their guns at their sides. They’d also chosen to come during daylight hours. Careless. But then again, if they’d asked around in Groton, all they’d have learned was that the owner of the cabin was an aspiring artist seeking peace and quiet to pursue his art. Steve Rogers was a relatively common name, and his military records were sealed.

He took cover behind a tree trunk. It wasn’t quite wide enough to cover him fully, but it’d have to do—they’d reach the back door in about five minutes. They were spread out in a long line, about eight feet separating each of them. He’d probably only have time to take two of them out before the other two returned fire. Guy at the back first. Then the one on his left.

Steve took a deep breath, and thumbed the safety on his gun. He aimed and fired, two quick shots in a row. The two men went down. The other two immediately ducked behind trees and began returning fire. A third man went down in a spray of blood when he extended a little too far trying to get a line on Steve.

The fourth man turned and sprinted towards the cabin. He wove through the trees, making it hard for Steve to get a clear shot. If he got past the trees, it was a short sprint to the door. If he got in the house, it’d be a hell of a time rousting him out. The man would have the advantage of higher ground once he got on the stairs. But worst of all, he’d be that much closer to Bucky.

Steve sprinted after the man and tackled him to the ground just past the line of trees. They slid several feet and fetched up on the snow-covered lawn behind the house. The man fought him like an oiled eel, their loose clothing making it hard for either one of them to get a good grip. Rage and desperation gave him the strength to get his arm locked around the man’s neck. The man reached back and tried to claw at Steve’s face and eyes. Steve batted his arm away and held on, waiting for the man to pass out. He wanted at least one of them alive. Not long more, going by the desperate, choking sounds and the weakening struggles.

“Let him go.”

Fuck.

A man stood behind him, face covered by a balaclava, pointing a gun straight at Steve’s head. He stayed well back, didn’t do the stupid, macho thing where he jammed the gun into the back of Steve’s head. That would’ve put him within reach to be disarmed.

“Get up,” the man said, in a raspy voice. “Hands behind your head.”

Bucky, he thought, please be watching. With slow, careful movements, he put his hands behind his head and got to his feet. He staggered sideways on the way up, hoping to give Bucky a clear shot at the man pointing a gun at him.

Even if Bucky couldn’t take the shot, Steve's only choice was to go along with them for now and wait for a chance to attack. The man he’d been choking dragged in ragged gasps of air before digging around in the snow for his gun. He picked it up, got to his feet, and did the stupid, macho thing. He jammed it against the back of Steve’s head, making sure it hurt. Clearly, he was pissed. Good. Angry men made mistakes.

“You’re a surprise,” the raspy-voiced man said, in a conversational tone. “We heard you were just an artist. Lucky I came along to keep an eye on things.”

Which explained why there was a fifth man. This was the ringleader—the one Steve needed alive.

Raspy addressed the other man without taking his eyes off Steve. “Move out of the way unless you want to get a bullet in your face.”

With one last vindictive push of the gun barrel against Steve's head, Sulky stepped aside and lowered his gun. From the direction of the house, a gun went off—one single thunderous blast that echoed through the trees.

Steve jumped at Sulky, trusting that Bucky's shot would take care of Raspy. They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Off balance as he was, he ended up on his back in the snow while Sulky tried to shove the gun under his chin.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh God. Oh God._

Bucky had just put a .308 round meant for big game right through a man’s head and watched the back of that head explode outward in a blossoming cloud of gore. The man crumpled to the ground. The scope showed the blood and bone and brain matter staining the white snow in excruciating, technicolor detail.

Don’t think about it now. Steve still needed him.

He watched Steve struggle with the man on top of him, feeling helpless and impotent. He had no angle on the attacker. A bullet would go straight through the man and right into Steve. He couldn’t take the risk that Steve’s body armor could protect him from a large caliber bullet shot from a high-powered hunting rifle. He was about to move downstairs to get a better angle when the gun went off. A spray of blood erupted from the top of the man’s head. He fell to the side to reveal Steve lying flat on his back on the churned-up snow.

Alive.

Breathing.

Bucky’s knees gave way and he sat down heavily. He thumbed the safety and cradled the rifle while he tried to catch his breath. The front door crashed open and slammed shut, then footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“Bucky!”

“I’m here,” he managed. When Steve appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, Bucky dropped the rifle, shoved himself upright and ran straight towards him. The only thought in his head was: He’s alive, he’s alive.

Steve gave a little grunt as Bucky crashed into him. “You’re safe, Buck,” he said, clearly misunderstanding the main source of Bucky's fear. He cupped Bucky’s head in one large hand, holding him tight while Bucky shook with reaction.

Bucky pulled away, the terror and adrenaline racing through his veins turning into an almost frantic need. “Steve… please.” He didn’t even know how to explain whatever it was that was coursing through him. Fear, heat, a desperation to feel Steve alive and breathing and vital.

Steve’s eyes widened as understanding and an answering heat ignited in his eyes. He held up his hand. “I’ve got blood on me.”

“So do I,” Bucky said shakily. He’d done it. Killed someone. Steve was right. He’d been so naive to think he’d have the luxury of setting up a perfect non-lethal shot.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“I’m not. He was going to kill you.” When he’d looked through the scope and seen the man point a gun at Steve’s head, seen him settle his shoulders as he got ready to fire, everything inside Bucky had gone still and cold. He’d pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. Then everything had happened so fast; Steve struggling with the other man, and now he was here.

Bucky kissed Steve. Hard. Deep. He wanted to taste Steve, prove to himself that Steve was okay. After a moment’s hesitation, Steve groaned and kissed him back. Bucky reveled in that sound because he knew it meant that Steve was finally letting go of his control.

Bucky dropped to his knees and scrabbled at Steve’s ski pants and belt. Jesus fucking Christ, there were too many layers between him and Steve's dick. Finally, _finally_ , he got everything out of the way—ski pants, pants, underwear—to reveal Steve's already hard cock. Bucky’s mouth watered at the sight of it; long, thick, flushed a deep pink at the head. A small, twisting vein stood out on its underside. He wanted to trace that path with his tongue, but later. Now, he just wanted it all. He opened his mouth and took as much of that gorgeous cock in as he could.

Steve swore, low and ragged as long fingers pushed into Bucky's hair, tipping his head back. He blinked up into eyes that had darkened to a deep blue-green. When their eyes locked, Steve’s hips made an aborted jerk, pushing his cock deeper into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky moaned. This is what he wanted. Needed. To be filled up, to have the weight and salt taste of Steve on his tongue, that warm, musky scent deep in his lungs. He relaxed his throat, looked up, and nodded. He wanted… he wanted…

Steve stared down at him, eyes going wide and disbelieving. Bucky gripped Steve’s hips and tugged. Steve’s hand tightened in his hair, and Bucky groaned as his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Fuck,” Steve whispered. He started to move—small, shallow thrusts that were careful and gentle.

Bucky tugged harder. He didn’t want gentle. He wanted to _feel_ it, wanted it raw, and dirty, and rough. Finally, Steve seemed to get the idea, pushing in deep until he bumped the back of Bucky's throat, then pulling out so Bucky could catch his breath, then sliding in again, a little deeper each time. All the while, he kept a tight grip on Bucky's head, keeping him immobile, controlling every move.

 _Yes_. This is what he wanted. His jaw ached from holding it open around Steve’s cock and his eyes watered every time that cock hit the back of his throat. He slipped one hand down into the waistband of his sweatpants but froze when Steve tightened his grip and pulled Bucky off his cock.

“You don’t get to touch yourself,” Steve rasped, low and commanding. 

Bucky blinked up at Steve, trying to process the words.

“That’s for me to do. You get me off, then I’ll take care of you. Understand?”

Bucky’s cock throbbed at the sound of that rough, baritone order, even has his bones felt like flame-softened wax. He licked his lips. “Yes, sir,” he said, voice coming out ragged and wrecked. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but Steve had him so fucking turned on that he’d lost control of his brain-mouth filter.

“Christ.” Something dark and possessive moved through Steve’s eyes as he tipped Bucky’s head back till his face was turned up and exposed. Bucky let him, remaining pliant in his grip. “Jesus Christ.” Steve sank his cock back inside Bucky’s mouth. “Look at you, baby. So gorgeous. I wish I could draw you like this, taking me so well. You did so good, Buck. You watched my back, you protected me, you saved my life.”

The praise sank deep into Bucky, and he keened, high and desperate, the sound trapped in his throat.

“Fuck,” Steve rasped. “Not gonna last.” A few more thrusts, then he gasped Bucky’s name. Bucky had time to suck in one, deep breath before Steve’s jaw locked up on a choked-off groan and he thrust forward, deep, all the way down to the root. Steve's cock pulsed on his tongue as come spilled straight down his throat. He swallowed it all down, trying to milk every last drop as Steve hunched over and came for what seemed forever. Bucky tried to memorize it all—the way Steve’s hand gripped his hair almost tight enough to hurt, the tight, harsh breaths, the little sounds of almost-pain.

When Steve finally pulled out with a shudder, Bucky leaned his head against Steve’s trembling thigh and sucked in huge, heaving breaths. His cock was so hard it almost hurt but he didn’t do anything about it, was content to wait.

After a few shaky breaths, Steve opened his eyes and stared down at Bucky. It took him a few seconds to really focus, and then his eyes went even darker. He pulled Bucky up, spun him around and pushed him until his back hit the wall. Bucky let out a shaky gasp at the hot, hungry look in Steve’s eyes.

“My turn,” Steve said. That dark, graveled voice went straight to Bucky’s dick. Steve trapped Bucky’s wrists in one big hand and pinned them up against the wall. He pulled the drawstring on Bucky’s sweatpants and shoved pants and boxer briefs down in swift, efficient movements. His eyes were dark and hungry as he spit into his hand and wrapped it around Bucky’s cock in a tight grip that stopped just short of being painful. Bucky didn’t know whether to push into it or pull away, and that almost-too-much feeling really fucking did it for him.

Steve jerked him off hard and fast with an almost merciless rhythm. He never took his eyes off Bucky, watching his every reaction with a gaze that bordered on predatory, gentling his grip only when Bucky’s cries became edged when it got too much.

“Steve,” Bucky chanted, over and over, his back arching and writhing. The only thing he could see were those blue eyes. His nerve-endings felt raw, sensation swamping him almost to the point of overload. “Ah, fuck!” Bucky’s body spasmed as every muscle went taut with pleasure. Steve kissed him then, deep and possessive as he came. He opened up and gave Steve everything.

*

“You okay?” Steve’s voice was careful as he combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

Bucky made a contented sound and turned his head into the touch. “Yeah.” He wasn’t sure how they’d ended up with him curled up in Steve’s lap on the floor, or how long they’d been there. All he knew was that he wanted to stay there forever, safe and secure in the circle of Steve’s arms.

An unpleasant thought penetrated the cloud of contentment he was drifting on. He sat up. “Are you injured?”

Steve quirked an eyebrow. “Do I seem injured?”

“Good point.”

“Come on. We should get cleaned up.”

“Together?”

An odd look crossed Steve's face at the question. The pit of Bucky's stomach went cold at the sight of it.

“Sure,” Steve said, after a moment. “Together.”

And Bucky felt like he could breathe again.

Steve watched him closely as they stripped off and got into the tiny shower cubicle. It was barely big enough to fit them, but Bucky absolutely, one hundred percent did not mind being pressed close to Steve’s big, wet body. He couldn't stop himself from touching Steve as images of Steve with a gun pointed at his head began playing over and over. If he'd been too late, hesitated…

Steve seemed to understand. He held still under Bucky’s ministrations, and seemed to have a similar need to touch Bucky in return. His hands were almost unbearably gentle as he rinsed the shampoo from Bucky's hair.

Halfway through pulling on one of Steve’s too-large sweaters, Bucky suddenly saw again the way the man’s head exploded open after he’d pulled the trigger. Saw him drop to the ground, nothing but a lifeless lump of flesh. Red blood on the snow. The gray and black of bone and brain and hair. He’d had done that. He’d shot the guy in the face. Cut his life short. Sure, the guy deserved it, but it was still… still…

“Hey.” Steve cupped his face. “Breathe.” He slid Bucky’s hand under his shirt and pressed it to the warm skin of his chest. “With me.” He took a long inhale, chest expanding under Bucky’s hand. “Out.” He let it out in a long, controlled breath. Those teal blue eyes held Bucky safely as he breathed in time with Steve. When the shakiness passed, Steve wrapped an arm around him, led him to the master bedroom, and helped him under the covers.

“Where are you going?” Bucky grabbed at Steve’s hand when he stood up.

“I’ve gotta tidy up and check on things. I’ll be back soon.” Steve handed Bucky the laptop on the bedside table. “Try to rest.”

Tidy up. That meant the bodies lying around his property. No. Don’t think of that. After a brief hesitation, Steve kissed him, soft and gentle, the hairs of his beard tickling Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s hand was halfway out to clutch his T-shirt when he stood up. With one last touch to Bucky’s cheek, he turned and left. Bucky wanted to call him back the moment the door closed behind him, but he bit his lip and swallowed the urge. He’d make do with being in Steve’s bed, wrapped in his scent.

Steve left the house feeling warmed by the relieved, happy smile on Bucky’s face when Steve had given in to temptation and tucked Bucky into his bed. But the long, cold walk to check the sensors that ringed his property soon had him chilled and full of guilt.

Terror and adrenaline needed to come out, and sometimes, they could be burned up in sex. Soldiers and operatives understood that the act was nothing but a release valve, but Steve wasn’t so sure about civilians. It would be easy for Bucky to mistake what happened between them for something more meaningful than it actually was. As the one more experienced in firefights, Steve should have resisted, but he’d wanted Bucky too much to say no. He’d been the worst kind of greedy and weak.

And God. _Bucky_. The way he surrendered control, the way surrendering seemed to turn him on even more—he called up every possessive instinct in Steve. The image of Bucky on his knees before him was one he’d probably never be able to shake. Not even two weeks, and Bucky had him so turned around he couldn’t see straight. Fuck.

He shook his head and tried to concentrate on checking the last sensor. That done, he turned his attention to problem of the five dead bodies on his property. A vengeful part of him decided to leave the three in the woods where they lay.

But the two on the lawn—one dead by Bucky’s hand—those two couldn’t be left there. Bucky would be able to see them from the window over the kitchen sink. After taking photos of their faces, or what was left of one of them, he dragged them far enough among the trees that they couldn’t be seen and returned to the house to send the photos off to Fury’s private email.

Bucky was asleep when Steve went up to check on him, a small bump under the thick quilt, curled up tight against the cold. His dark hair spilled across the white pillowcase. In sleep, Bucky’s lips had a sulky cast to them, very at odds with his quick smile when awake. Steve wanted to trace the shape of those lips with his fingers.

Instead, he opened his laptop. There was one email waiting for him, sent from an address that was just a random string of numbers. Fury was a paranoid son of a bitch but that paranoia sometimes paid off. Bucky’s training, for example. For which Steve would always be grateful to Fury. The email only said: _Call me_. Moving quietly so he wouldn’t disturb Bucky, Steve went downstairs to make the call.

Fury picked up after the third ring. “Rogers.”

“Fury.”

“How is your guest?”

“Well as can be, considering.” Considering he’d shot a man in the head. Steve hated that because of him, Bucky now knew what it was like to take a human life, but a brutal, savage part of him couldn’t help reveling in the knowledge that Bucky had done it to save him.

“We identified the kidnappers. Not exactly hard, since they’re one of SHIELD’s best Strike Teams.” Fury sounded like he always did, annoyed, even though he must’ve been surprised by the information. “The one missing half of his head is Brock Rumlow. He’s the team leader. We went through his records and found the information we need. He’s the mole—been feeding information about SHIELD’s projects to interested buyers around the world.”

“You sure you got them all? Any other Strike Teams we need to worry about?”

“No. We’ve found the buyer. Arranged for them to have… an accident.”

Steve knew not to touch that one. “So Bucky’s safe?”

“More people die from—”

“I’m not fucking around here, Fury. _Is he safe?_ _”_

“As safe as can be. Rumlow only gave James’ information to the buyer. We’ll remove all trace of it when we send our message. I’ve got my best team working on it. People I trust personally.”

“Like you trusted Rumlow?” Steve tugged the curtain aside and stared out the window. Snow had started to fall, covering up evidence of the afternoon’s violence.

“He wasn’t one of mine. We brought him in because one of my men asked to be taken off the protection detail so he could be with his wife when she gave birth. Have I answered all your questions satisfactorily?” Fury’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Steve didn’t like the fact that someone might still get greedy and try to grab Bucky, but Fury was a man of his word. And there was no denying he was extremely thorough. It would have to do. “Okay,” he said.

“Hill will pick James up tomorrow and move him to a secure location. We’ll keep him there until we’re done cleaning up. Another team will pick up the bodies after that. You can expect them after lunch.”

“Sure.” Steve scrubbed at his face and turned away from the window. “Okay.” By this time tomorrow Bucky would be gone. His life would return to normal. Quiet. Uneventful. Lonely.

He wrapped up the call with Fury and went back up to his room. Bucky hadn’t moved at all. The ache of tiredness he’d been holding at bay settled on him as he looked at Bucky’s sleeping form. There was something so intimate and domestic about having Bucky warm and safe in his bed. Would it be so bad to steal a little more time with him? Unable to resist, Steve stripped down to T-shirt and boxers. Goosebumps pebbled his skin as he slid in behind Bucky. Bucky gave a tiny sigh and unfurled like a plant feeling the first rays of the sun as Steve spooned him.

“Everything sorted out?” Bucky murmured.

Steve’s heart clenched at the sound of Bucky’s voice—soft and slurred with sleep and full of trust. He tightened his arm around Bucky’s waist and buried his face in hair still damp from their shower. The heat of Bucky’s body chased the chill from his bones. “Yeah. All sorted out. Go to sleep, Buck.”

“You won’t leave?”

“No. I won’t leave.” And he wouldn’t. It was Bucky that was leaving.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky woke up to the feeling of something warm pressed against his back. He turned around to see Steve propped up in the bed, reading a book. The ends of his too-long fringe glowed golden in the light of the lamp. “You came back,” Bucky whispered.

Steve looked over at him and smiled, just a little uptick of the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Bucky shifted to rest his head on Steve’s lap and drape an arm over his long, muscled legs. Fingers combed through Bucky’s tangled hair. Shit. He must look ridiculous. Falling asleep with damp hair always left him looking like he’d had a close encounter with a Van de Graaf generator. The gentle movement of warm fingers proved very effective at distracting him from the embarrassing realization. Honestly, Steve in general proved very effective at distracting him. He looked delicious—shaggy hair falling about his face, a little duck tail sticking out at the back, his beard framing plush, pink lips. Bucky had kissed those lips. That thought alone was a fucking trip. But it was the tender warmth in Steve’s eyes that was the real killer. God, what he wouldn't give to wake up to that look every morning.

His chances of making that happen might actually be pretty good. He wasn't blind or a fool—there was something between them that was special. At least he thought so. And sometimes the way Steve looked at him, he suspected he wasn’t the only one. Maybe he could ask to stay for a little longer. Nick had wrangled him an extra month off from work, so he wasn't due back at work any time soon.

He shifted closer, pushing Steve’s sweater and shirt out of the way so he could press his face against warm, bare skin. After a surprised inhale, Steve shifted down on the bed and tucked Bucky against his side.

Feeling bold, Bucky tugged at the sweater and shirt. “Take it off?”

With a bemused smile, Steve did as he asked and lay back down.

Goddamn, but that was a gorgeous view—glorious muscle lightly furred with golden hair all spread out before him. Feeling very satisfied, Bucky pulled off his own shirt, rested his head on Steve’s warm, naked chest, and curled close. Steve gave an amused snort, but he wrapped his arm around Bucky and tugged up the blankets with his free hand.

Bucky was in heaven. A warm, gorgeous, muscled heaven. It would’ve been a porn fantasy heaven as well if he wasn’t still physically and emotionally drained from the violence of the afternoon. Lying safe and warm in Steve’s arms felt like the best kind of antidote.

He buried his cold nose against Steve’s chest and breathed in his warm, already familiar scent. Steve twitched, but bore it with fortitude. As they lay there in contented silence, Steve began to relax while Bucky swept his hand up and down Steve’s side.

“How long have you lived here, Steve?”

“Nearly a year and a half.”

“You’ve been alone here all this time?”

“Mmm.” Steve sounded like he was drifting.

All that time. Alone. In a remote location. The nearest town was nearly an hour away, so Steve probably only saw people when he went there to buy supplies, something he didn’t seem to need to do even once a week. Steve didn’t seem to chat online with anyone, or Skype friends or family. How long did he go between actually interacting with someone? Feeling the warmth of a human body next to him? From the way he was slowly dissolving into the bed, it was probably quite a long time.

Christ, Steve. Bucky pressed a kiss to warm skin and snuggled closer, wondering how long Steve would let himself be held. The answer was: quite a long time, if the building pressure in Bucky’s bladder was anything to go by.

“What time is it?”

It took about a second for Steve to register the question. He lifted his wrist and stared at his watch—a big macho-looking thing with a compass and six hundred small dials, one of which probably told him the time on Mars. “Nearly six.” He groaned. “Looks like it’s leftover stew again for dinner.”

Bucky wished they could lie in their warm cocoon for a little longer, but he really did need to do something about the impending crisis in his bladder, and Steve needed his sustenance. It took a lot to keep his tank of a body going. But first, Bucky stretched up and pressed a kiss to the underside of Steve’s chin, on the soft part just behind the bone.

Steve smiled down at him. Bucky couldn’t resist going in for another kiss. Soft, tender. God, he had it bad—in bed with the hottest guy he’d ever met and all he could think of was cuddling him. Bucky pulled back only when his bladder started sending him increasingly alarmed signals. “I gotta take a leak,” he whispered. Then instantly wished he could recall those words. Goddamn Steve and his goddamn blue eyes.

Those eyes laughed up at him, warm and indulgent. “Go on. If not, I’ll be tempted to stay here and then we’ll have no dinner.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Bucky heaved himself up. “Fuck,” he whispered, when the cold air hit his skin. He yanked on his discarded T-shirt and sweater and slid reluctantly out of bed to go relieve his cock-blocking bladder.

The curtains on the first floor were still drawn when he went down. Even though it was already dark outside, Bucky still kept seeing the dead bodies lying in white snow. The pools of blood kept getting bigger and bigger—

He pressed his hands to his eyes and focused on the kaleidoscope starbursts of color that blossomed behind his eyelids. He tried not to remember the grim satisfaction he’d felt when he pulled the trigger and watched the guy about to shoot Steve get blown back by the force of the shot. Then blood had begun to stain the snow around the man's head and what was left of his lunch tried to crawl back up his throat.

He should probably ask Nick to recommend a therapist as soon as he got back.

And Steve had killed four of them. Jesus. He hadn't even stopped to consider if Steve was okay. He seemed so competent and capable and self-contained—but maybe he just hid things well.

When he got into the kitchen, Steve was in the middle of getting out the stew to re-heat. If he got to stay longer, he was going to introduce Steve to some herbs and spices beyond bay leaves and pepper. He pressed himself against Steve's back and watched him dump the cold stew into the pot.

“I should've asked earlier, but… are you okay? I mean, those four guys out there. You had to, well…” Steve tensed up. It was like hugging a granite monolith.

“Kill them?”

“Yeah.”

“I told you, it's what I do. Did.” Steve sighed. “And I'm good at it.”

“Doesn't mean you're okay, though.”

Steve stirred the stew, the heat of the pot making it hiss and sizzle. He covered the pot and put the wooden spoon in the empty container. “I haven't fired a bullet since I left the Army.”

Guilt flooded Bucky, but he remained silent. This wasn't about him now. He stroked the skin of Steve's waist with his thumb and waited.

“I don't like that I'm so good at it. But I'm willing to do it for the right reasons.” Steve turned around and wrapped his arms around Bucky. “Keeping you safe? That's a right reason.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky whispered. “I'm sorry I brought all this to your door, but thank you.”

“It wasn't your fault.” Steve clasped the back of Bucky's neck. “They sold you out. They had it coming. And now they can never hurt you again.”

Bucky felt something inside of him give way. That fear had been plaguing him ever since he’d escaped. It was always there at the back of his mind—they’d find him, they’d make him pay for getting away. Three of the men were pretty interchangeable—they fed and watered him in an impersonal, business-like fashion, treating him like the product he was. Bucky couldn’t tell them apart with their balaclavas on. But the fourth guy… there was a nasty edge to him that was terrifying. He always seemed two seconds away from violence. All he needed was an excuse.

Bucky made a small noise and huddled closer. It was ridiculous. The men were all dead. He shouldn’t feel this sudden need to hide himself in Steve’s strength, but then, feelings were rarely rational. Steve held him without comment, big warm hands stroking up and down his back in soothing strokes until the microwave beeped to indicate the rice was done heating up.

“Come on,” Steve said. “Let's eat. You'll feel better with some food in you.”

It was so calmly practical that Bucky had to laugh. “Okay.” He leaned in for a kiss. Maybe Steve didn't notice, because he turned back to the stove to switch of the burner. Bucky rubbed a hand over his arm, feeling suddenly chilled.

The chill persisted throughout the dinner when Steve seemed quiet and preoccupied, rarely meeting Bucky's eyes. Halfway through the meal, Bucky put down his fork.

“Steve.” Bucky’s heart began to pound when Steve’s jaw ticked, shadows cast by the overhead lights accentuating the movement. Long lashes shielded his eyes. His face looked remote and stern. Bucky swallowed past the lump in his throat. “What's wrong?”

The silence stretched out between them.

“Fury’s sending someone for you.” Steve finally met Bucky’s gaze with shadowed eyes. “They'll be here tomorrow after lunch.”

“What? When was this decided?”

“I spoke to Fury when you were asleep.”

Bucky’s gut twisted with an awful mix of pain and betrayal. “You didn't think I’d want to have some input in that conversation?”

“It's not safe for you here. They found you once. They might find you again.”

“Don’t I get a fucking say in that? It’s my damned life, after all.”

“I need to know you’ll be safe, Buck.” There was a quiet appeal in Steve’s words, a sincere, bone-deep worry in his eyes. 

Fuck. Bucky had no defenses against that look. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still mad, though. “I should’ve been there.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Steve sighed, a long, tired sound—Bucky’s heart leaped. Was he getting through?—“But it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Steve’s face could’ve been carved from fucking stone, that was how resolute he looked. So much for the grand plan of asking to stay longer. “I’ll call you as soon as I can get a secure line—”

“Bucky.”

The food in Bucky’s stomach congealed into a solid lump. “I can't even call you?” He tried to say it like he was joking, but his voice sounded strained to his own ears. From the drawn look on Steve's face, he heard it, too.

“In a tense situation,” Steve said, in a careful voice, “it’s easy to form very strong bonds in a short time. Especially when it's a firefight, and people are protecting each other. A sense of responsibility can develop.”

“Steve, don't do this. You think I can't tell the difference between gratitude and real feelings? Just because you’re… you’re… my knight in plaid flannel?”

Steve ignored Bucky’s weak attempt at humor. “You saved me too, Buck,” he said, gravely. “You took a life for me.”

“So you're the one who can't tell the difference between gratitude and real feelings?”

Steve had no answer for this but his hand had balled up into a fist so tight his knuckles stood out white against the skin.

“Bullshit.” Bucky hoped, prayed, that the silence meant he was starting to get through. “You're an experienced soldier,” he said, words practically tripping over his tongue. “You must've been through similar situations lots of times. Don't tell me you can't tell the difference.”

It took all of Bucky’s self-control to remain in his seat as Steve stared at him. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds as he waited for a response.

“Six months,” Steve said, in a voice like gravel.

“What?”

“Give yourself six months away from me, this place. Go back to your life. Date. If you still want to continue this after six months, you know where to find me.”

“You want me to date other people.” The words burned like acid on Bucky’s tongue. “And you? You gonna do that, too?”

Steve looked haggard as he shook his head. “I’m not… I’m not built for casual.” He ducked his head and straightened his fork. “You need to be sure, Buck. We both do.”

Well, fuck. Once Steve put it like that, Bucky couldn't say no—feelings _could_ get mixed up in tense situations, especially when sex happened. Phil, Nick’s other right-hand person, had given him the talk with an absolutely neutral face while Bucky’s sixteen-year-old self had squirmed in his seat with a burning red face. Phil had finished up the talk with the dangers of getting crushes on his protection detail, which in this case, Steve sort of was. Steve had saved him, sheltered him, protected him.

He could see why Steve might have doubts. Hell, after Steve laid it out for him, even _he_ had doubts. Tiny, infinitesimal doubts, but doubts nonetheless. That wasn’t how he wanted this to begin.

“Three.”

Steve huffed a laugh—pained, resigned. “Five.”

“Four and half?” Bucky asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Steve shook his head once, his mouth set in a firm line.

“Fine. Five months. Then I'm coming back.” And he would. The way he felt about Steve wasn’t something that was going to fade. Five months wasn’t so bad, not when he was in it for the long term. And if that’s what it took to convince Steve he was serious, then so be it.

Steve's smile was soft and a little sad. “I hope you do.”

“Okay, here are my conditions.” Bucky smirked when Steve's eyebrows shot up. “What? You think you're the only one who gets to call the shots?”

“I’m listening.” Steve folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, a tiny glimmer of amusement lighting his eyes.

“Think about getting a dog or a cat? See your friends, sometimes. Maybe you’re just lonely and I’m the first friendly face to come along in a while.”

“You think I could replace you with a _dog?_ ”

Bucky choked back a slightly hysterical laugh. God, the tension in the room was making him loopy. “No! Okay… maybe.” At Steve’s outraged look, he hurried on. “Look. You think I might be confused because you saved me. Well… maybe you’re confused, too.” He shrugged. “Besides, it's not good for you to be all alone like this, Steve.”

Steve’s expression was unreadable as he studied Bucky. The wind rattling the windows was the only sound for a long moment.

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. He slumped back in his seat, feeling like he’d just barely managed to tapdance his way across a highwire strung over an icy ravine.

He picked up his fork and wasn’t surprised when the rest of the meal passed in awkward, stilted conversation. The awkwardness persisted all the way till they both went up for the night.

After Bucky finished getting ready for bed, he hesitated in the hallway between their rooms. He knew where he wanted to be, but did Steve want him there?

A small beam of light spilled out into the hallway from where the door to Steve’s room had been left cracked open. Steve always kept his door closed at night—it was too cold to do otherwise.

Fuck it. This was his last night here. Caution was for the weak. Bucky tapped on the door and pushed it open enough to stick his head inside.

Steve was already in bed, but he’d left one side of it empty—the side Bucky had slept in. Bucky slid into the room and stood with his back to the door.

The corner of Steve's mouth tipped up. He flipped back the quilt. “Close the door, Buck. You're letting out the warm air.”

Something inside Bucky loosened. He climbed onto the bed and straight into Steve's arms.

*

When Bucky woke up in the morning, the bed was empty. The distant, rhythmic sound of metal on wood meant Steve was outside chopping wood. It was probably for the best. Leaving was going to be hard enough. Adding slow, easy morning sex or cuddles would only tempt him to fuck self-control and dignity and beg to stay.

The knowledge that he only had a few short hours before he had to go left him quiet and melancholy. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to go drool at Steve and his ax. The exertion of chopping wood didn’t seem to settle Steve all that much, because when he came back into the cabin, he was also quiet and withdrawn.

All too soon, lunch was over and it was time to pack. Not like Bucky had much to pack since he’d showed up in nothing but the clothes on his back. The clothes had mostly been cut to shreds. The jacket, he’d never seen again, for which he was grateful. He’d been happily living in Steve’s clothes for the past two weeks. He rubbed the hem of the flannel shirt he was wearing between two fingers, the fabric soft and worn after multiple washes.

“You can keep it.”

Bucky turned to find Steve watching him from the doorway. “The shirt?”

“And whatever else you need. Not sure if they’ll bring supplies when they come get you.”

Of course they’d bring supplies. Steve and him both knew Fury’s best would have thought of that. “Thanks,” Bucky said. “Probably just a few shirts and a sweater, and a pair of sweats. And uh…” Bucky blushed. “The underwear.” He wanted to bring them all so he could keep wearing Steve’s clothes till the five months were up. But he also wanted to leave some of ‘his’ stuff behind so Steve would wear the clothes he’d used and think of him.

God, they were pathetic.

Steve dug around in his closet and pulled out a small duffel bag. He held it out, face drawn, eyes shadowed. “You can use this.”

“Okay.” Bucky took the bag and tried not to cry. If Steve hadn’t left the room after making a feeble excuse about drying the dishes, he probably would have. When he was done, he heard the sound of a car driving up the road towards the house. So that was that.

Maria was standing in the living room talking to Steve in low, serious tones when Bucky walked down with the duffel over his shoulder. She was dressed in nondescript clothes, hair tied back in the sleek ponytail she favored.

“Hey.” He went forward and was pulled into a brief but tight hug. “Wow.” He could probably count on one hand the number of times Maria had hugged him. “I must've really scared you, huh.”

“Yeah, well.” Maria stepped back and pretended to look around, avoiding his eyes. “I spent all those years training you. Didn't want it to go to waste.”

Bucky snorted and bumped her shoulder. “Your training saved my ass.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Bucky,” Steve said.

“He’s right.” Maria’s eyes were serious. “You saved your own ass. And Rogers’, too, from what he tells me.”

Bucky bit his lip, uncomfortable with the praise and the reminder of the life he’d taken. “Can we stop at my apartment before you take me to wherever you're taking me to?”

“Bucky.” Steve and Maria spoke the same time, with identical notes of disapproval in their voices.

“Ten minutes.” Bucky squared his shoulders. “That’s all I want. Just to let anyone still watching know that I’m not here anymore. They found me here once, I don’t want anyone trying again.”

“I can take care of myself, Buck,” Steve said. You're giving them a perfect opportunity to grab you.”

“I will never forgive myself if something happens to you.” The memory of his nightmares—Steve lying lifeless and broken—sent a shudder through Bucky. He waved a hand at Maria. “Maria and her team will be watching me.”

Maria looked from him to Steve and back again. Then, she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Save me from self-sacrificing idiots.”

“That’s a yes, right?” Bucky said. Maria gave him a flat stare. He bit back his smile. It was a yes.

“We should go.” Maria’s voice was dry as dust. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us since we’ve got to detour to New York.”

“Hill.” Steve frowned at her, clearly trying to convey his dissatisfaction with her decision.

Maria glanced at Steve and shrugged. To Bucky, she said, “Five minutes. I’ll be outside.”

The quiet that settled once Maria left the room was tense and full of emotions that Bucky couldn't put words to. Steve stared at him with a sad, resigned look on his face.

“You're breaking my heart with that face, Steve.” Bucky buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck. “Just say the word and I'll stay right here.”

Steve's arms tightened around him, and just for a moment, Bucky thought he'd change his mind. But then, Steve released a long sigh. “We need to do this.”

“Ugh.” Why’d he have to be such a fucking immovable object. Bucky bit down on the meat of Steve's shoulder, not hard, just enough to sting. “Fine,” Bucky said, as Steve gave a startled laugh. “I’ll be back in five months.” He poked Steve in the chest. “Mark it down. June 15th.”

Steve hugged Bucky tight enough his breath wheezed out of him. Jesus fuck, the guy was strong.

“I’ll be here.”

Steve's voice was a low rumble in his ear. Bucky tugged him down and allowed himself one soft parting kiss. Letting go and stepping back was like cutting out a vital, breathing part of himself. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“You better be.”

Steve slid his hands into his pockets and watched as Bucky picked up his bag. 

“Steve, you can't look at me like that if you want me to be able to walk out that door.” And Bucky got it, he got that they needed to prove to themselves and each other that what they felt was real. But fuck him if he could leave when Steve looked like he was watching his last good thing walk away.

Steve closed his eyes. He opened them and nodded, then pulled Bucky into a kiss that seared him to his bones, like Steve was trying to stamp his mark on Bucky's heart. Idiot. That mark was already there.

“I’ll miss you.” Steve touched his forehead to Bucky's. “Better go before Hill drags you out by the ankles. Tell her to text me when you go the safehouse.”

Bucky nodded and made himself step back. “I’ll be seeing you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Steve stood at the window and watched until the car taking Bucky disappeared from sight around a bend in the road. The cabin echoed, silent and empty, like the apartment he’d grown up in had after Sarah’s death. In just twelve days, Bucky had upturned Steve’s quiet life and firmly entrenched himself in it.

And now he didn’t know what to do with himself. His wood box was full to overflowing with all the wood he’d chopped while trying not to think of Bucky’s departure. The perimeter alarms were fine. All the dishes from lunch had been put away, the kitchen counter wiped down. He sat down and picked up the book he was halfway through, but his eyes drifted over the words without absorbing anything. He missed the warmth of Bucky sitting close by, doing whatever he did on the laptop while Steve read.  

In the end, he sat with his sketchbook and drew Bucky over and over, because during the twelve days, it’d never occurred to him to take a photo of Bucky, because he was the only thing Steve wanted to draw. God, he was stupid. He should have just said yes when Bucky asked to stay.

But his conscience wouldn’t let him. Bucky would be safer with Fury’s people. Hill really was one of the best. If Fury had sent anyone else, Steve might’ve pushed his way onto the team, traded a favor with Fury for that right.

And maybe he was being a coward, protecting himself by sending Bucky away, but he didn’t see how Bucky could be serious about him. Bucky was young, funny, kind, gorgeous—he could have anyone he wanted. It was just a matter of time before Bucky realized he was better off with someone younger, someone less worn down and closed off. Someone who didn’t have nightmares filled with violence and blood. The separation was for the best.

Steve made a frustrated sound and closed the sketchbook over Bucky’s laughing eyes. Five months. One hundred and fifty days. Steve raked a hand through his hair and went out to check his alarms for the second time that day.

*

“Come on, girl.” Steve bit back a smile and tugged on the leash again. “It’s time to go inside.” Corner gave a quiet whine and looked up at him with the softest, saddest brown eyes, ears drooping. Jesus Christ. “Okay, five more minutes.”

She yipped as he let out the retractable leash so she could spend a little more time sniffing through the fallen branches on the ground and barking at squirrels. 

He’d gotten her two weeks after Bucky left. He didn’t feel even halfway up to leaving the cabin but he wanted to start making good on his promises to Bucky. So he combed his hair and trimmed his beard and went down to Groton to get his half-yearly haircut and visit the animal shelter.

That’s where he found her—an older dog, left at the shelter when her family had to move to another city and couldn’t bring her with them. She was a brown mutt of indeterminate breed, probably with some Labrador in her, going by her barrel-shaped body and floppy ears. She was curled up in the far corner of the cage while the other dogs crowded up to the bars, barking and panting excitedly. Everything about her emanated dejection and misery. After a staff member got her out of the cage for him to meet properly, she turned out to be a shy, quiet dog with gentle eyes and so much love in her heart. Through no fault of her own, she’d been left behind by the people she loved. There was no way Steve could walk away and leave her behind.

Her name was Corner. If that wasn’t a sign he was finally turning a corner in his life, he didn’t know what was. He’d shut himself away for over a year but now he was ready to take better care of himself, and that included taking tangible steps towards a future with Bucky.

It was all terribly ridiculous and corny, but there it was.

Things improved after that. The house didn’t feel as empty. But he still missed Bucky with a fierceness that left him aching. Corner’s presence and quiet devotion were a balm, but nothing could ever make up for Bucky’s absence. He spent a lot of time in front of his easel where a portrait of Bucky was starting to take shape on the canvas. It was a study of the planes and angles of his face, turned just a little away from the viewer with a hint of a teasing smile curling his lips, and the elegant, graceful lines of his body as he lounged on the couch. Steve worked in broad strokes, trying to capture Bucky’s energy and warmth more than an actual physical likeness.

And now it was April. The snow that had blanketed the ground when Bucky left was all gone. He had another promise to keep, one he’d put off for too long. It was time to go in. He whistled to Corner and made himself stand firm despite her sad, reproachful face. After getting her squared away, he sat down in front of his laptop and sent an email to Dum Dum. Gabe, Morita, and Dum Dum had been the core members of his team.

They were still at Fort Bragg finishing up their service. He didn’t fault them for that—giving up their pension by resigning early wasn’t something a lot of people were able to do. Steve had the luxury of having enough saved away to take some time off, and job offers from private security firms ready to take him on any time based on his reputation. And SHIELD.

Dum Dum’s reply came in within hours. _Rogers!!! Thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth! The guys’ve been asking about you._

Next thing he knew, he was added to the group chat which some joker had named The Twilight Howl. It was nice. He caught up on their lives and their families, smiled over the photos they sent. Since idle conversation was never something that came easily for him, he didn’t contribute much beyond photos of Corner. She was a huge hit with the guys. Apart from her—the guys had a limitless appetite for stories of Corner scaring herself with the sound of her own farts—his uneventful days weren’t exactly great anecdote fodder. But it was still nice to feel like part of the group again even though he was in Vermont and they were miles away in Fort Bragg, and could go radio silent any time.

 _Hey Rogers,_ Gabe sent one day in the third week of April, _we got block leave coming up! Wanna meet up?_

Steve put down his phone. Wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants. He pushed Corner’s head off his lap, ignoring her grumble, and stood up to give his pot of pasta sauce an unnecessary stir. A sick feeling of guilt curdled his gut. It was something that had plagued him ever since he’d left the army. He’d abandoned his guys—left them to do the dirty work he could no longer stomach doing. Hiding away in Vermont didn’t really help all that much with that guilt, neither did cutting off all contact. Meeting Bucky, who was so vibrant and alive, made him realize how disconnected he’d become, from himself and from life. No surprise really. He’d spent a long time suppressing his growing unease at the work he did as a Delta Force operative. And then when he left, he’d suppressed that guilt, too.

He didn’t want that for himself anymore—a life lived in stasis. He’d turned that corner, and he was going to keep on walking in the new direction he’d chosen. _Sure,_ Steve sent back. _Name the time and the place._

After some to and fro, it was agreed that they’d all meet up in New York on the first weekend in May. Gabe would be there visiting his mother, Dum Dum was bringing his wife and kids to visit his parents in Boston, and Steve was in Vermont. New York was the logical place for them meet. Morita would just have to suck it up and fly out from Fresno.

 _Fuck all you East Coasters,_ was Morita’s response. _I’ll be there._

Bucky was in New York, too.

Some nights, when the ache of missing Bucky swelled until it felt like it would consume him, Steve lay in bed and had to stop himself from calling Fury to ask for Bucky’s number. That would be the ultimate in pathetic—calling a four-star general to ask for a guy’s number. Fury would probably hang up on him without a word. At least he had Bucky’s address. Bucky had left it stuck to the fridge with a magnet along with a short message: _Here’s my address jic. No phone number cos I’m no cheat._

Somehow that tenuous connection was enough to pull him back from doing something stupid. Stick to the plan. He’d never been very good at it, but he was going to damn well try this time.

*

Steve stepped into the dim interior of something that looked one step up from a dive bar and felt instantly at home. This was exactly the kind of place the Howlies would feel comfortable in. Dum Dum had an almost magical ability to sniff them out all over the world. A weird assortment of paintings that didn’t seem to fit any particular theme hung on the walls. Dusty, plastic flowers proliferated in corners, fake trailing ivy adorned the wall behind the bar. The bar itself was probably sticky with spilled beer, and the air smelled like it’d been trapped in there since Prohibition. For a Saturday night, it was pretty empty and quiet. That was just the way the Howlies liked it.

He spotted the guys occupying a table in the far corner. Dum Dum with his distinctive ginger mustache, Gabe ageless in a navy sweater, Morita looking like he hadn’t slept or combed his hair in three days, half-consumed by a hoodie that looked two sizes too big.

There was a jug of beer on the table and four mugs—three already filled, and an empty one for him. The table had a good line of sight to the door. Old habits. It was much like another night in another dive bar in Fayetteville—the night they’d said goodbye to him after he’d signed out of Fort Bragg for the last time. He walked over, a familiar warmth already settling over him at the sight of the men he’d served with for ten years. The guilt was still there, under that warmth, but he’d made his peace with it.

“You actually came, you son of a bitch!” Dum Dum yanked him into a hug tight enough to make him wheeze. “Morita!” Steve winced as Dum Dum roared into his ear. “You owe me twenty!”

“You fucker.” Morita gave Steve a jaundiced look before pulling him into a hug. “The one time I thought you wouldn’t show, you show.”

“Gotta be unpredictable, Morita.” Steve slapped Morita on the back as he hugged him back. “You think I forgot all my training?” He grinned and ducked out of the way of Morita’s fake punch.

“It’s been too long, Rogers.” Gabe stood up and hugged him. He gave Steve a once-over and gestured at his face. “I see you're rocking the hipster lumberjack aesthetic.” 

“I was going more for unkempt mountain man, but sure, that works too.”

“It's ‘cause you tucked in your shirt,” Morita said.

Steve looked down even though he knew the plaid shirt he had on over a white T-shirt was tucked into his jeans. He laughed and shook his head. He shouldn’t have waited so long to contact them. Seeing the three of them again was like slipping back into old boots broken in by miles of marches—more than a little malodorous and looking like something a large animal had tried to eat and then regurgitated in disgust—but still the ones that would get him through a hard, double-time march with a heavy pack on without a single blister.

“So how’ve you been, man?” Gabe sat back down and filled Steve’s mug with beer. “You’re not exactly Chatty Cathy in the group chat.”

Steve took the seat they’d left for him. He thought about walking through the woods with Corner, watching trees and plants wake to new life around him. He thought about the portrait of Bucky on his easel, slowly gaining life as he added brush stroke after brush stroke. He thought about the group chat that had him smiling several times a day. “I’m doing okay.”

The table was quiet. Everyone watched him with careful eyes, their relief palpable.

“You always were a sensitive sort, Steve,” Dum Dum said, clapping Steve on the shoulder and giving him a little shake. “It was hard for you to do what you felt you needed to do.”

Gabe and Morita nodded at that, their faces serious. Steve didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known his struggles with his conscience had been so obvious to the rest of the team.

“Welcome back,” Gabe said.

“Hear hear.” Dum Dum toasted Steve and took a huge swallow of beer.

“After what happened with the Russia thing,” Gabe continued, “we were pretty worried about you.”

So was he, to be honest.

“Two years alone in that hut—”

Steve laughed. “Fuck you, Morita. It’s a _cabin.”_

“Whatever,” Morita said, with a smirk.

“I’m better guys, I swear.” Hell. He might even finally see about talking to someone at the VA. His grip tightened on the mug. “I’ve been working on my art.”

“Aw, man, that’s great!” Dum Dum’s response was so enthusiastic the tips of his mustache quivered. “When did this happen?”

Gabe elbowed him and gave him a ‘what the fuck’ look. Steve grinned, feeling lighter already. “Before I contacted you, actually,” he said.

“And you never posted a photo of your art?! Not even one?” Dum Dum shook his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” He held out his hand. “What are you waiting for?”

Steve huffed a laugh and pulled out his phone. He swiped to the photo album full of art he’d done of Corner and handed it over. They were mostly quick sketches of her doing things that made him smile—weird dog expressions, rolling around in the grass, curled up into a ball asleep on the couch.

“Would you look at that,” Dum Dum said, angling the phone so Gabe and Morita could see the screen.

Morita gave a soft whistle. “You’ve gotten better, Steve. A _lot_ better.”

Steve could feel his cheeks heating. “Yeah. Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Helped to have something to draw besides your ugly mugs.”

“And who's this looker?” Dum Dum turned the screen to Steve. It was a sketch of Bucky on the couch. He was wrapped in a quilt with a laptop on his lap. The sight of that perfect profile struck a pang in Steve’s heart.

Fuck. Steve grabbed the phone back from Dum Dum. He must’ve saved Bucky’s sketch into Corner’s folder by accident. The silence stretched out, broken by the sound of laughter from the group at the next table.

Steve was already regretting his knee-jerk reaction. He could’ve lied, said it was practice art drawn from a picture. Who would’ve been the wiser? But now they all knew Bucky was someone important to him, and with how intimate and domestic the setting had been, they also knew in what way Bucky was important to him.

“Just a guy I met.” Thank God it hadn’t been one of the other sketches. The ones of Bucky on his knees for instance.

The guys all exchanged glances at his curt answer.

“Have I shown you a video of Alison learning to walk?” Dum Dum said.

“No, man,” Gabe said. “You been holding out on us.”

It was an abrupt change of subject with zero attempt at subtlety. Steve could’ve hugged them for it.

Dum Dum took his phone out and pulled up a video. His 10-month-old daughter was staggering from armchair to couch to coffee table, using each item of furniture as support to stay upright. The video shook and jerked every time she stumbled, Dum Dum clearly about to toss the phone so he could grab her, but she caught herself every time.

“That is ridiculously cute,” Morita grumbled.

Steve snorted. “She is very cute.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gonna kill my knees.” Dum Dum watched the video with a goofy smile on his face, his adoration clear for everyone to see. “So anyway,” he said, when the video ended, and he turned his attention back to Steve. “Thanks for showing us your art, Steve. She’s one gorgeous dog.”

“She is.” Corner made his days a lot less lonely now that Bucky was gone.

“Aww, look at you.” Gabe nudged him. “You’re so gone on her.”

“Which is only right and proper,” Morita said. “To good dogs.” He raised his mug.

Looking around at Dum Dum, Gabe, and Morita, Steve’s smile was no longer just because of Corner. He was goddamned lucky to have such good friends. He’d fucked off to a remote corner of Vermont for two years, and yet they were happy to accept him back into the fold like he never left.

By the time they left the bar, it was nearly midnight. Steve said goodbye to everyone and, after getting engulfed in one more hug from Dum Dum that made him wheeze, he headed to the subway. As he waited for the train, he couldn't stop thinking of the fact that Bucky's apartment was just a two train stations away from the tiny AirBnB studio apartment he was staying in—something he knew because he’d already memorized the route. When he reached his stop, he sat in the train and watched people getting on and off while he stayed put. He wasn't even surprised at his choice.

It wasn't like he was going to knock on Bucky’s door or anything. Just… stand outside like a creeper and miss him. God, this was a stupid idea. He berated himself all the way, but he kept walking all the same, walked until he was standing on the street across from Bucky's apartment building.

He stood there for five minutes wrestling with the temptation to go in and knock on Bucky's door. While he was still arguing with himself, he saw Bucky walking up the sidewalk outside the apartment, side-by-side with a tall, lean man with hair long enough to tie back in a ponytail. Bucky wore a dark-colored bomber jacket over close-fitting jeans that showed off his long, lean legs much better than the various sweatpants Steve had lent him.

The man was talking, hands gesticulating, while Bucky smiled that kind smile of his. He laughed once, the sound swallowed up by the distance. Steve tried to recall what Bucky’s laugh sounded like, but after four months, some details were already starting to fade. There was a cold, sick feeling in his stomach.

The two men stopped outside Bucky's apartment entrance. Bucky's date turned to face him, cupped one hand around Bucky's cheek—

Steve turned around and started walking. He walked and walked until he was back at the apartment and never once looked back.


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing Steve did when he got back from New York was take the half-finished portrait of Bucky off the easel. He couldn’t bring himself to cut the canvas off the frame, so he carried it up to the guest bedroom. A lot of other things ended up in there—Bucky’s quilt, the clothes he used, his toothbrush. When Steve closed the door on the room, it was with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be going in there any time soon.

The first week was tough, but he got through it. He threw himself into taking care of Corner and keeping up with the group chat. It wasn't like it was a surprise—hadn't he guessed that this would happen? Bucky would realize he was better off with someone else. No matter how often he told himself that, the hurt lingered. Deep down, he'd had faith in Bucky, in his constancy and his heart.

By the end of May, the pain had dulled to a heavy ache.

But then the day arrived. June 15th. The day Bucky was supposed to come back.

Steve thought he was used to eating alone after five months of it, but that morning, he felt haunted by memories of Bucky—the way he cradled his first cup of coffee like it was a precious elixir, his love of eggs over easy served with pepper and ketchup. Doing the dishes reminded Steve of standing side-by-side with Bucky at the sink, so close together that the warmth of Bucky’s body seeped into his own.

By ten in the morning, Steve was quietly going out of his mind listening for perimeter alarms that weren’t going to sound. The June weather wasn’t exactly ideal for hiking, but he’d rather lose a gallon of water in sweat than stay in the cabin any longer. He packed a sandwich lunch for himself, some trail bars, kibble for Corner, and enough water for the both of them. After switching off his cell phone, he slipped it into his backpack as well. He knew a trail that would keep him away till after six at the earliest. No one would be coming after that.

The hike was as hot as expected, but he still found some measure of peace in putting one foot in front of another. Watching Corner go into ecstasies at all the many scents of the forest helped put a smile on his face. It was small, but it was still there. He’d get through the day, and the days after that. He had his friends, and he had Corner. He had his art again. Even though all of those things were entwined with his feelings for Bucky, they were all still very good things that he was glad to have in his life.  Maybe one day soon, he’d be happy for Bucky.

The sky was beginning to darken and a chill cool the sweat on Steve’s skin when he neared the cabin. Corner came to attention and began barking. Steve's heart sped up. Not Bucky, he told himself. Don’t get your hopes up. Probably a deer. His pace quickened all the same, Corner sticking close by his side.

He emerged from the trees to find a rental car parked on his lawn and Bucky sitting on his porch. Bucky got slowly to his feet, a ferocious frown on his face. He folded his arms and glared at Steve. Joy and relief flooded through Steve in a cresting wave that left him overcome and wordless. Even looking supremely pissed-off, Bucky was still the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. He looked gorgeous and sexy in a black graphic T-shirt, skinny jeans, and black boots. And there Steve was in a worn old T-shirt, cargo shorts, and clunky hiking boots—sweaty, sticky, and filthy from his hike, heart beating like a triphammer in his chest, gaping at Bucky like some kind of brainless lump.

He crossed the wide expanse of green grass, slowly climbed the porch steps, half-afraid Bucky was a hallucination cooked up by his overheated brain. “You came,” he whispered, the words slipping out without thought.

“Yeah, and where were you, asshole?” Bucky glanced from Steve to Corner and back again. “I’ve been here for hours.”

Bucky glared at him, his lush lips pressed into a grim line. His gray eyes were like chips of ice, but his face was pale and drawn. Steve felt like a complete and absolute dick. He’d done this, he’d cut and run while Bucky’d had the guts to wait outside his empty cabin for hours.

“I’m sorry.” Steve strode forward with Corner at his heels and engulfed Bucky in a hug. Bucky stood stiff and unyielding but Steve counted it as a good sign that he wasn’t being pushed away. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Did you forget?” Bucky’s voice came out small and hesitant. It felt like a knife to Steve’s heart.

“No. _God,_ no. I didn’t forget.”

Bucky pulled away and nailed him with a look. “Then what the _fuck_ , Steve? I fucking called Maria to get your number, but your phone was switched off.” Bucky dragged a hand through his rumpled hair, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked exhausted. In a quieter voice, he said, “I thought something happened to you.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve touched Bucky’s cheek. “I switched it off so I wouldn’t keep checking for flights arriving from New York.”

“Jesus Christ, Steve.”

Steve shrugged. He knew he had it bad. And now that Bucky was here, he was thankful, so fucking thankful, that he wasn’t alone in that.

“You still haven’t told me why you weren’t here.”

Steve ducked his head. “I was in New York a month ago.”

“Okay,” Bucky said slowly.

“I went by your place.” Steve’s insides squirmed with embarrassment at having to make the confession, but he owed it to Bucky.

“Why didn’t you—”

“You were coming back from a date.”

Bucky closed his mouth.

“He was gonna kiss you. So, I… left.” Corner leaned her head against his knee. He looked down and rubbed her head while she panted.

“Did you hang around long enough to see me give him my cheek and go up to my apartment alone?”

Steve’s head snapped up. He shook his head.

“Coward.”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky was right. He had no problem putting his life on the line for a cause, but when it came to his heart, he was a coward compared to Bucky. “I thought you weren’t gonna show. Didn’t think I could stand to be here waiting, so I went for a hike. And instead, you’re the one that was stuck here waiting.”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasped. “Fuck you.”

Steve nodded. He deserved that. In fact, he would much rather bear that anger than see the hurt, vulnerable look on Bucky’s face when he thought Steve had forgotten their agreement.

“You told me to date. So I dated. One fucking date, which of course you saw me on.” Bucky glared at him. “Is that gonna be an issue?”

“No. No issue. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Bucky wasn’t smiling, and God did he miss Bucky’s smiles, all of them in all their moods and varying levels of mischief, but at least his mouth was no longer set into a pinched line taut with misery.

“I wasn’t gonna let you get away on a technicality,” Bucky said.

Steve huffed a laugh. He touched his thumb to Bucky’s lush lower lip. “Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

A considering gleam entered Bucky’s eyes. One corner of his mouth tipped up in a lop-sided smile. It felt like the sun emerging from behind a storm cloud. Steve took his first easy breath at the sight of it.

“I’m gonna have to think about that one. I was here for _hours,_ Steve. You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

“That’s fair.”

“You bet.”

“I did what you asked as well.” Steve looked down at Corner, who was sitting patiently next to him. “This is Corner.” Bucky dropped to one knee and held out his hand for her to sniff, smiling all the way now. “And,” Steve continued, “I got in touch with some of the guys from my old team. That’s why I was in New York, actually. We met up for dinner, hung out for the weekend.”

Bucky looked up from where he was busy earning Corner’s undying devotion by rubbing her ears and chest. “How did it go?” She collapsed onto her side with a groan, exposing her belly for Bucky to rub.

The guys had all rallied round to cheer him up when he showed up the next day down from seeing Bucky. After he got home, more messages had come in than usual, stupid shit, dumb jokes, and insults from dawn to dusk. It was like being back in the field with them. He'd forgotten what it was like to have that sense of camaraderie in his life. He would probably have sought them out at some point, but Bucky's request had accelerated the process and for that, he was grateful.

“It's been good.” 

“Seems like it has.” There was a soft glow in Bucky’s eyes. “You look good, Steve.”

Steve blushed and dragged a hand through his shaggy hair. At least he’d trimmed his beard this morning. Just in case. He gestured at Bucky, still crouched down next to a blissed-out Corner. “You cut your hair.”

“Got fed up of it always in my eyes.” Bucky looked up at him through long lashes. “What do you think?”

The short cut accentuated Bucky's cheekbones and beautiful gray eyes, and revealed a natural wave in his thick, dark hair. “I love it.” Steve threaded his fingers through it, heart clenching when Bucky tilted his head into the caress. “God, I missed you, Buck.”

Bucky stood up and stepped into Steve's arms. “I missed you too.”

A weight Steve had been carrying ever since Bucky left finally lifted. “How long can you stay? I still have your toothbrush.” Worries about their future, with Bucky in New York and him in Vermont, those were for another day.

“I took a week off. Don’t have many days left after… you know… everything.” Bucky pointed at the duffel next to the door, the same one Steve had given him on the day he’d left. “And I brought my own toothbrush, thanks. Rather not use your Basic McBasic toothbrush that’s stiffer than wire bristles.” Bucky gave him a wicked grin. “I was already planning on using it to carve a nicely worded ‘Fuck you’ on your door.”

“Wouldn’t a key have worked better?”

“I’m willing to test out the theory right now.” Bucky patted his pocket. “Keys against toothbrush. Let’s go.”

Steve laughed. He buried his face in Bucky’s hair and breathed in, reacquainting himself with Bucky’s scent. It was different now—different soap and shampoo and detergent—but underneath was the warm almost-vanilla scent he remembered. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go inside. We can have leftover stew for dinner,” he said, and laughed at Bucky’s theatrical groan.

 

**EPILOGUE**

Steve was greeted by the sound of rapidly clicking nails when he let himself into the apartment. Corner ran out of the kitchen towards him, barking excitedly. After two weeks camping in the rough on Theodore Roosevelt Island with a bunch of SHIELD trainees, the familiarity of home settled around him—the warm scent of Bucky’s favorite red-cooked beef short ribs flavored the air while a song with a hypnotic, curling beat played over the sound system.

Steve dropped his duffel and crouched down to scrub his hands all over Corner’s head as her wagging tail shook her fat dog butt. “Hey, girl. You miss me?” She made little squeaking yips and whining sounds as she tried to lick his face.

“That’s a stupid question.” Bucky walked towards him, wiping his hand on a dishtowel. A wide smile lit his face.

“Hey, Buck.” Warmth spread out from the general area of Steve’s chest. After one last pat for Corner, he stood up and pulled Bucky into a hug. “You miss me?”

Bucky hugged him back for a long moment before smacking his shoulder. “That’s an even stupider question.” Bucky kissed him, a sweet brush of lips against lips. Then once again, a longer and more thorough kiss that had them both breathless. “How’d the training go?”

Steve hummed noncommittally as he sank his fingers into Bucky’s hair. He had such a thing for Bucky’s hair, whether it was short, or growing out like it was now. Bucky seemed to switch hairstyles with the seasons. “They’ve got a long way to go before I’ll be comfortable certifying them for field work, but they’re getting there.”

After three months of being pursued by Fury to lead a Strike Team, Steve had talked it over with Bucky and made Fury a counteroffer. He wouldn’t do field work anymore, but he would join SHIELD as a trainer at their DC headquarters. That way, he still felt like he was helping, but he could come home at the end of the day to Bucky and Corner, work on his art. Fury accepted. Within the month, they found an apartment in Dupont Circle and Bucky got himself transferred to the DC office of Stark Industries.

Steve was happy to leave his days of being a killer for the government behind. He knew he was helping train more killers, but he had too many faces in his memory, too many dreams of blood and death and kills made in close quarters. He didn’t want more. And being a trainer meant that he got to keep his skills sharp so he would be able to protect Bucky if anyone tried to use him as leverage again.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly. “You’re a million miles away.”

“I’m right here.” Steve smiled, looking right at Bucky. “I’m home.”

Bucky’s eyes went soft. “God, Steven Grant Rogers. You’re such a sap. I’d never have guessed that my lumberjack wetdream would turn out to be such a romantic marshmallow.”

“My secret’s out. If I chop wood and rip some logs apart, can I redeem myself?”

“Rip logs, huh?” Bucky licked his lips and gave him an assessing look. “If you wore a really tight T-shirt, I think we can work something out.”

Steve patted his stomach. “I’ve been kinda putting on the pounds.” After months of enjoying Bucky’s cooking, his pants were getting noticeably tighter.

“Hey.” Bucky poked him in the chest. “Just makes you even more snuggle-able.”

“Snuggle-able, huh? Is that even a word?”

“A guy I met once said all words are made up.”

“He’s not wrong,” Steve conceded. “Next time we go back to the cabin, I’ll put on a show just for you.” Tight T-shirts were just as comfortable as regular ones, but came with lots of side benefits. After spending a month in them to appease Bucky for making him wait alone outside the cabin, he had empirical proof of this. Bucky originally planned on three months, but decided to commute the sentence when he saw the half-finished painting of himself. The finished painting now had pride of place on their living room wall, perfectly lit by track lights so that “everyone can see how much you love me.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that promise, Steve.”

“I hope you do.”

“Go shower.” Bucky gave him another lingering kiss before heading back to the kitchen. “Dinner’ll be ready soon.” Bucky threw him a seductive smile over his shoulder. “And I’ve got a special dessert just for you.”

“Can’t I get that as a starter?” Steve tried to look as pitiful as possible when Bucky looked back at him. Two weeks was a hell of a long time.

“Two weeks without running water, Steve. You stink. Not even those puppy dog eyes will help you.”

“Fine,” Steve grumbled. He looked down at Corner. “It’s just you and me, girl. You still love me even though I stink, right?” She barked once, sharp and excited.

“She loves you _because_ you stink!” drifted out from the kitchen.

Steve laughed and headed to the bedroom with Corner. It was good to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr [yetanotherobsessivereader](http://yetanotherobsessivereader.tumblr.com/) or on twitter [@obsessiveread1](https://twitter.com/obsessiveread1)


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